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32- Bjorn The Villain ? End
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 19:40:24 +0000 UTCBjorn stood in the center, not moving. His breathing had finally slowed to normal after the fight. The adrenaline was wearing off now, leaving behind that familiar emptiness that always came after violence. His sword hung in his right hand, still bloody. He should clean it soon or blood would pit the steel if left too long.
Around him, bodies lay where they had fallen. Monks and mostly militia who had tried to defend the place. The stones between his feet were dark with blood that was already starting to congeal. It made a soft sticking sound when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
One of the monks lay directly in front of him. No head. The brown wool of his robe had soaked up so much blood it looked black now. Bjorn stared at the body for a long moment, his jaw working slightly as if he were chewing on something.
Finally, he crouched down.
He didn't say anything. There wasn't anyone close enough to hear anyway. His men were spread out across the courtyard, doing the things that needed doing after a fight. Checking bodies. Looking for wounded. Gathering weapons and anything else worth taking.
Bjorn reached for the monk's robe and found a section near the bottom that wasn't completely soaked. The fabric tore easily when he pulled at it. His hands were steady. They always were, even right after killing people.
He wrapped the strip of cloth around his palm and started cleaning his sword. One side first, working methodically from hilt to tip. The blood came off in dark streaks on the brown wool. Some of it had already started to dry and stick to the etched runes along the blade.
The scraping sound the cloth made against the steel was the only noise nearby. Further away, he could hear his men moving around, their boots scraping against stone, occasional low voices. But here, where he knelt, it was just him and the work of cleaning his weapon.
He looked up once toward what used to be the scriptorium.
The roof had caved in completely. Black wooden beams stuck up at odd angles, still smoking. Every now and then a piece of parchment would catch fire and float up into the air before turning to ash. All those books and scrolls, gone.
"What a shame," Bjorn said to himself. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
He wasn't thinking about the dead monks. He was thinking about what might have been in those books. Maps, maybe. Records of other monasteries. History. Information that could be useful. But he had told Floki to burn the building anyway, because he had to split them otherwise he would just lose more men for the courtyard was not an advantage for his numerical superior army.
That was the calculation. Books versus lives. He'd made the choice.
He finished cleaning one side of the sword and started on the other. The second side was worse, more blood, and it had dried harder. He had to scrub at some spots.
Behind him, he heard footsteps. Careful ones. Someone trying not to make noise but not quite succeeding.
Bjorn didn't turn around immediately. He finished the section of blade he was working on first. Then he looked over his shoulder.
Alf and Alvis were standing a few feet away, waiting. Both of them looked tired. Soot streaked across their faces. Alvis had a small cut on his forehead that was still bleeding a little.
"We finished counting," Alf said.
Bjorn nodded once. "Go ahead."
"One dead on our side. Sigmund." Alvis paused. "Took a spear in the belly during the push. Bled out before we could get to him."
Bjorn stopped cleaning his sword for a moment. "Sigmund?"
"That's right."
"His brother doesn't know yet?"
"his brother is with the other in that place that have treasure. We haven't told him."
Bjorn went back to cleaning his sword. "He'll have to know eventually."
"Two wounded," Alf continued. "Thorleif's got a cut across his back. Deep, but clean. We stitched it up. Should heal fine if it doesn't fester. Einar broke his arm, but the bones lined up right when we set them."
"Anyone else?"
"Orm's got some bruised ribs. Still walking around, though."
Bjorn nodded. Could have been worse.
"The older monks," Bjorn said suddenly while looking around the dead bodies of the monks and militias. The dead monks here were young. "Did you find where they were hiding?"
Alf and Alvis exchanged a look.
"Yeah," Alf said. "There was a cellar under the burned building. Door burned through when the roof came down."
"They alive?"
"Not anymore. The heat..." Alf shook his head. "Cooked them."
"How many?"
"Hard to say. Five, maybe more. Not much left to count."
Bjorn went back to cleaning his sword. He didn't say anything for a while.
"They probably screamed," Alf added pitying them. "When the fire started coming through the floor and burned them alive."
Bjorn still didn't respond. He was thinking about that moment when he had given the order to burn the scriptorium. Had he known there were people hiding underneath? He wasn't sure. In the middle of a fight, you made decisions fast. You didn't always have time to think through every consequence.
More footsteps. Heavier ones this time, not trying to be quiet.
Bjorn looked up to see Kauko approaching through the smoke. There was blood on his hands and arms. Not his own blood, from the way he was moving.
Kauko stopped a few feet away, breathing hard through his nose. His axe was still in his hand, and Bjorn could see his knuckles were white where he gripped the handle. Some men took longer to come down from the fight than others.
"Bjorn," Kauko said. His voice was rough.
"What did you find?"
"Church is empty. We went through everything. Pews, altar, all the little rooms in back. Nothing but some candlesticks and those iron crosses they wear. Rollo thinks the monks ran with the gold."
Bjorn arched an eyebrow, his voice quiet and dry. "Ran? You think old monks will run carrying heavy chests full of treasure?"
Kauko shrugged. "That's what he said."
Bjorn exhaled through his nose. Rollo always saw what was missing, never what was hidden. 'Also did he just use Rollo and the word think in one sentence?'
He glanced toward the stone church building that hunched beneath the darkening sky, its roof still smoking faintly.
"My father still in there?"
"Ragnar? He's there, pacing by that...thing. But he's as blind as the rest of them."
Bjorn said nothing at first, his eyes remaining on the church while his thoughts moved elsewhere. Ragnar was cleverer than most but still limited by his time and place.
"Get the men organized," Bjorn said to Kauko. "Wounded first, then start getting everything loaded. We need to be gone before dark."
Kauko nodded and walked away.
Bjorn wiped his hands on the cloth one more time, then dropped it next to the headless monk. As he walked toward the church, he had to step around more bodies. Militia, Monks.
The church door was hanging off its hinges. Someone had hit it with an axe, probably trying to break the lock. Bjorn pushed it open and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately. Smoke, sweat, blood, and underneath it all the old church smell of incense and candle wax.
It was dimmer inside than out. The windows were small, and most of the light came from the doorway behind him. His men had overturned most of the wooden pews, looking for hidden compartments or anything valuable. Torn pieces of cloth and parchment were scattered across the floor.
Ten of his men were still inside, continuing the search. They looked up when he entered, then went back to work.
Faste was near the front, kicking at a broken piece of wood. His beard was gray with ash. "There is nothing here," he said when he saw Bjorn. "Just junk. Those Baldy bastards must have taken anything good and run."
Near the altar, Leif and Erik were on their knees, prying at the stone floor with their knives. Sweat was dripping off their faces despite the cool air inside the church. Next to them sat a small pile of what they'd found so far, a few silver candlesticks, some copper coins, a wooden bowl.
Ragnar was standing by what used to be a lectern, holding a book with gold letters on the cover. He looked up when Bjorn approached.
"Find anything interesting?" Bjorn asked.
Ragnar held up the book. "Guess not."
Bjorn looked around the church. His men had been thorough, every pew overturned, every corner searched, every loose stone tested. But churches like this, especially rich ones, didn't give up their secrets easily.
He walked slowly toward the altar.
It was a single piece of stone, probably carved from local rock. Wide and thick, with crosses and other Christian symbols etched into the sides. It would take several men to move it, but it could be moved.
"Has anyone looked under the altar?" he asked.
The men stopped what they were doing and looked at him.
Rollo straightened up from where he'd been searching behind a pillar. "Under it? Why would anything be under there?"
"Because," Bjorn said, still looking at the altar, "if I were a monk and I had something valuable to hide, that's exactly where I'd put it."
Faste scowled. "It's solid stone. Must weigh as much as a horse."
"So we move it."
It took six of them. Rollo and Faste on one side, Leif and Erik on the other, with Ragnar and another man bracing against the back. Bjorn didn't help, he stood back and watched, ready to direct if they needed it.
The altar scraped against the floor as they pushed, making a grinding sound that echoed through the church. Slowly, inch by inch, it slid aside.
Then the men went quiet.
Beneath the altar lay an oak chest, banded with iron and adorned with silver fittings at the corners. The top was carved with intricate religious scenes of saints and angels, their faces solemn, though Bjorn didn’t recognize the stories.
Beside it, glinting in the dim light, were treasures befitting Jarrow’s renown: a gold chalice, its rim studded with garnets, a silver paten etched with crosses, and a small reliquary encrusted with pearls and amethysts, shimmering with sacred purpose.
"Well," Ragnar said after a moment. "There it is."
Bjorn stepped closer but didn't reach for the chest immediately. He looked at it from different angles, checking for any signs that it might be trapped or damaged. It seemed solid enough.
Finally, he knelt down and lifted it out of the depression. It was heavy, heavier than it looked. Whatever was inside, there was a lot of it.
"How did you know That it would be there.?" Ragnar asked.
Bjorn thought about how to answer that. The truth was, he already knew it was there.
"Because that's exactly where i would hide it." he said.
Ragnar stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Right," Bjorn said, standing up with the chest in his arms. "Let's get out of here."
As they filed out of the church, Bjorn could hear his men in the courtyard calling to each other, organizing the retreat.
Just another successful raid. Just another day's work.
But as Bjorn walked through the courtyard, stepping around the bodies of the monks and militia who had died trying to protect this place, he found himself thinking about those books that had burned in the scriptorium. All that knowledge, gone forever.
What a shame, he thought again. And this time, he almost meant it.
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Later, the courtyard of Jarrow Monastery lay quiet under a darkened sky. Smoke hung low and bitter, curling in slow spirals from the dying scriptorium fire. The flames had reduced to glowing coals, and only the occasional creak of settling wood broke the stillness.
The Vikings were gone. No more war cries or clattering boots on gravel. Only the smell of burnt parchment, iron, and smoke remained.
Far off, the river Tyne moved quietly, mist curling around the longships' dragon heads as they slipped into the night, oars dipping gently.
Near a toppled cart, a man stumbled forward, heavy and slow. He had been broad-shouldered once, but now walked hunched as if expecting another blow. A fresh cut ran across his upper arm, blood soaking his leather tunic. His face was pale beneath the grime, and his eyes blinked as though struggling to focus after too much darkness.
He glanced toward the smoldering scriptorium, then down at the scattered bodies. His gaze lingered on Beornred's corpse. No words came.
A few feet away, a young novice crouched in shadows near a collapsed stairwell. His hands gripped a simple wooden cross so tightly his knuckles were white. His lips moved soundlessly, whether in prayer or simple hope, none could say.
Brother Godric leaned against a blackened wall, worn and pale. His side bled through a torn habit, but he sat still, too drained to speak.
The second militiaman limped toward them, eyes darting toward the tree line as if expecting enemies to emerge again. His bow was gone, and his breath came ragged.
Finally, the broad-shouldered man found his voice.
"Somebody has to tell King Ælla," he said quietly, not meeting the others' eyes. His gaze rested on the broken gate. "They took everything."
He wiped his mouth, swallowing hard. "Jarrow is finished."
No one answered. Only the crackle of dying fire and the faint drip of water, or perhaps blood somewhere in the shadows.
Eadmund spat, pressing his wounded side. "We can't all make it to Monkchester. You and Godric won't last the ride." His eyes fell on a horse tethered near the gate, flanks slick with sweat but still steady.
"I'll take that one to Ad Murum. The king is there."
The younger man's eyes widened. "Alone? The heathens—"
"Are gone," Eadmund said firmly. "Stay hidden. If the levies come, tell them what happened."
The horse snorted, pawing at the bloodied earth. Eadmund climbed stiffly into the saddle, pain flashing through his wounded arm. He sheathed his dagger. "For Beornred," he muttered, urging the horse forward through the shattered gate.
The road stretched west along the Tyne, its stones worn smooth beneath the rising moon. Behind him, the glow from the scriptorium dimmed, smoke stinging his lungs with every breath. The river whispered on his left, dark and restless.
Each step of his horse sent jolts of pain through Eadmund's wounded side. His sleeve grew heavy with blood. The night was cold, carrying scents of pine, mud, and iron, the very taste of Jarrow's ruin.
He passed Wallsend's crumbling Roman fort, its stones pale in the moonlight. An owl hooted somewhere nearby. His fingers tightened on the reins while his other hand rested near his dagger.
More than two hours passed as he rode the Roman road west along the Tyne.
The road continued through low bushes and pine trees. Hadrian's Wall was visible to the north, old and broken in places, its stones worn down by centuries.
Ahead, the villa Ad Murum came into view; a solid, simple building of stone and timber sitting close to the Wall. About a mile west of Monkchester's fort, it looked sturdy with thick oak beams supporting a thatched roof patched with moss. The foundation was built from old Roman stones, some covered with moss, others cracked by age.
A wooden fence surrounded the hall, with two timber watchtowers standing guard. Torches burned at the towers, casting light onto the ground.
Eadmund slowed his panting horse, foam flecking its muzzle.
Two housecarls stood at the gate, their faces unreadable beneath iron helmets, spears in hand. Their armor was battered but well-maintained, evidence of men who had faced many fights and survived.
"Who rides at this hour?" the guard called, holding his torch high, suspicion in his voice.
The rider pulled the reins hard, his horse snorting as it came to a halt. Eadmund swayed in the saddle, his right arm hanging useless, soaked through with blood.
"Eadmund," he said, breathing hard. "Of Lord Beornred's levy. From Jarrow."
The other guard stepped closer, frowning beneath his helmet. "Why do you ride alone?"
Eadmund dismounted with a thud, staggering one step before steadying himself.
"The monastery..." he began, then stopped. His throat was dry. He couldn't bring himself to say it directly.
The first guard's brow furrowed. "Speak plainly."
Eadmund looked at him. "The monastery of St Paul was attacked," he said quietly. "It's gone. They—" He looked away for a moment. "I must inform the king immediately."
The second guard crossed himself, muttering under his breath, "Christ preserve us."
The first guard's face had gone pale. He stepped back from the gate and looked up at the palisade tower behind him. Then, slowly, he made the sign of the cross as well.
Silence hung between them, broken only by the horse's labored breathing and faint wind from the hills.
The first guard turned. "Get the steward and wake the king."
Then he looked back at Eadmund. "God help us," he said, his voice lower now. "What you're saying... it's a curse on this land."
He waved Eadmund through. The palisade gate creaked open, revealing the hall's firelight spilling through narrow windows. Eadmund staggered across the yard, past a stable where horses nickered softly, to the hall's heavy oak door carved with knots and beasts.
The villa was quiet at this late hour. Fire in the hearth snapped gently, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The mosaics beneath King Ælla's boots were old Roman work, worn, cracked in places, the ancient gods faded with time.
The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke, wine, and oiled iron. Somewhere deeper in the hall, a servant moved with soft footsteps.
Ælla sat alone, shoulders slightly hunched, elbows resting on his knees. His crown lay beside him on a small wooden table, next to a folded letter from a bishop he hadn't answered. A carved cross hung on the far wall above the hearth.
He had eaten earlier; bread, cured meat, a bit of fruit. Now he drank nothing, simply listening to the quiet and the way the stone walls seemed to breathe in the night's cold.
A guard stood near the arched entrance, arms folded over his round shield, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Neither man spoke. They both waited.
The door opened. Bootsteps echoed on stone.
The guard straightened.
A man entered, his face pale, jaw clenched. He moved with a limp, one arm pressed tightly to his side. His breath steamed in the firelight.
The king studied him, recognizing a soldier's bearing despite his wounds.
"What's your name?" Ælla asked loudly.
"Eadmund," the man said, breath catching. "Of Lord Beornred's militia."
Ælla looked at him for a long moment, his brow furrowing. "You're wounded."
Eadmund gave a small nod. "Yes, my lord king. I bring terrible news from Jarrow."
Ælla rose slowly from his carved chair, his weathered face grave. The king's eyes fixed on the bloodied messenger.
"Speak," King Ælla commanded, his voice carrying the authority of years of rule. "What has befallen the monastery of Saint Paul?"
Eadmund's throat worked. "We received news of ships being spotted, dragon-prowed ships. Following your orders, Lord Beornred assembled a small force and went to defend the monastery. We fought alongside Lord Cynric, but we were outnumbered."
"Go on."
"They showed no mercy, my lord. Most of the militia, more than twenty five men were killed. The brothers... some were cut down in the fighting. Some died trying to protect God's word from burning. And the older brothers and the Abbot..." His voice broke slightly. "They were burned alive."
Ælla stared at him. His hands slowly curled around the edge of his chair. His lips moved once, but no sound came.
His wife entered then; Queen Ealhswith, her long cloak trailing behind her. She had been reading in the chapel and wore no jewelry but her wedding band. Her face was unreadable. Her eyes went to her husband, then to the stranger.
She was accompanied by her eldest daughter Judith, sixteen years old. Her youngest daughter and son, heir to the kingdom, were already asleep.
"What's happened?" the queen asked quietly.
Ælla didn't turn. "Jarrow is gone. Most of it burned to the ground."
Judith and Ealhswith gasped simultaneously.
"Who is mad enough to burn a holy place without fearing God?" Queen Ealhswith asked.
"I fear they are the same pagans who raided the monastery at Lindisfarne," Ælla replied grimly.
Eadmund then repeated his account with more detail, speaking slower this time. He mentioned each name of militia and brothers alike who had been cut down. The room seemed to darken, though the fire hadn't changed.
No one interrupted him.
When he finished, Ælla crossed the room to stand before the carved wooden cross. He stood in silence, head lowered, not weeping but his hand trembling slightly with rage as he made the sign of the cross across his chest.
After a while, Ælla turned. "Who are these heathens? Why have they come to torment us?"
"We tried to speak with them, my lord, but to no avail. They were led by a young man with silver hair. I heard them calling him Bjorn."
"Bjorn..." Ælla said, the name heavy on his tongue.
"Bjorn?" Judith interrupted. "Isn't that the same one from—"
Ælla didn't let her finish. "Yes. The one who raided the monastery of Lindisfarne, as the brothers there said."
The weight of that realization settled over the room like a shroud. The same enemy, the same ruthless efficiency, the same calculated destruction of holy places.
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To the Most Reverend Bishop Alcuin of York, in service to our Lord and to Emperor Charles, Defender of Christendom,
From the royal court at Eoferwic, under the seal of Ælla, by the grace of God King of Northumbria,
In the year of our Lord 793
My Lord Bishop,
By command of His Majesty King Ælla, I write to you with tidings grave and hard to speak. The fury of the northern sea has returned upon our shores, more dreadful than ever before. The heathens, those godless beasts from beyond the whale-road have struck again, this time at the holy house of Saint Paul at Jarrow.
The King received word from riders three days past. The monastery lies in ruin. The scriptorium; heart of learning and flame of memory was burned to its foundation. Older monks were shut inside and consumed by fire. The Abbot himself, a man of great repute and gentleness, refused to flee. He died standing among the sacred books, and they say his last words were a prayer.
O Lord, how can such a thing happen in our time, without warning, without justice? Is this not the beginning of greater sorrows? As it is written: "Behold, the Lord will bring upon them a nation from afar..."
The people ask if this is punishment for their sins. I ask myself, too: have we grown proud in peace? Have we, servants of God, strayed too far from the narrow path?
The younger novices who survived report that the heathens laughed. They laughed. What kind of men mock the screams of the dying?
The raiders took everything. What they could not carry, they destroyed. What they could not burn, they desecrated. They came to erase, not to plunder.
His Lord King is sorely troubled. Though strong of will and heart, he does not take this lightly. He has gathered his thegns and ordered the strengthening of the coastal watches. There is talk of raising a fleet, or at the least a line of longboats to meet the Norsemen upon the sea.
Yet what army can defend every river mouth, every island, every strand of shore? The King asks not only for warriors, but for prayer. Let every church from Lindisfarne to Carlisle lift its voice to Heaven. Let penance be made. Let the people be reminded: sin weakens the shield of the realm.
The King will not allow these monsters to believe Northumbria lies sleeping. He bids you send trusted men to Eoferwic to advise on how best the Church might stand alongside the Crown; in strength, in spirit, and in resolve.
I remain your servant in Christ,
Radbertus,
Royal Clerk of Letters, in the service of His Majesty Ælla,
King of the Northumbrians
Comments
Aymane Hajjami
Cuz they surrendered and the fighting was over. The Vikings were already pulling back and Bjorn at least the man he is now wouldn’t kill people who no longer held a sword.
JL
Please more!
JL
How did they leave people alive?
