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30- Bjorn, The Villain ? Part I
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 16:39:27 +0000 UTCThe quill scratched faintly against the vellum, a whisper in the quiet of Jarrow’s scriptorium, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional creak of wood. Brother Aelfric, not yet twenty winters, sat hunched at his desk, the stiff wool of his robe bunched around his shoulders. His fingers were stained deep brown from oak-gall ink, his nails rimmed in black despite his best efforts to scrub them clean during ablutions.
Beside him, Brother Edwald; an older monk with a crooked nose and a constant sniff, sneezed into the crook of his sleeve. “Saints preserve me,” Edwald muttered, wiping at his nose with the edge of his sleeve. “This dust will be the death of my sinuses.”
Aelfric allowed himself a faint smile. “Perhaps it's a penance. Too many idle thoughts at Prime.”
“You wound me,” Edwald said, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Idle thoughts are the only thing keeping me from collapsing onto this desk. If I must copy another line of 'liber generationis Iesu Christi,' I may turn Benedictine wine into blood just to be spared.”
Across the room, Brother Ceolwulf, the elder scribe, cleared his throat as an unspoken warning. Edwald ducked his head in mock repentance, and the quiet returned. The only sounds were the scratching of quills and the rhythmic clink of ink pots being dipped.
Aelfric blinked against the candlelight. The Latin script blurred for a moment, and he rubbed at his eyes with ink-stained knuckles. Before him lay a copy of Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, Bede’s great work, penned in this very monastery.
The passage he copied today recounted the mission of Augustine of Canterbury, sent by Pope Gregory to convert the Anglo-Saxons.
Aelfric traced the letters slowly, forming each with precision: “Ut ad nationem Anglorum verbum Dei perferretur...”—"That the word of God be carried to the English people..."
It was not a dramatic tale, but a sober account of bishops, kings, and slow conversion. And yet to Aelfric it meant more than history. It was a record of a people shaped not by sword but by Scripture, of heathen forefathers who had bent the knee not through conquest, but through belief.
Outside, a gull cried faintly. The scriptorium’s narrow windows were open just enough to let in the scent of damp earth and spring chamomile from the herb garden beyond. The smell made Aelfric’s chest ache. Brother Cedd had tended that garden. He used to leave sprigs of mint at each desk before morning prayers. He was gone now.
“Are you nearly through that folio, Brother?” Ceolwulf’s voice, though dry and rasping with age, still carried authority.
“Nearly, Father,” Aelfric replied. “Only the colophon remains.”
“Good. Finish it before Sext if you can. The abbot wishes to review the latest copies before they’re sealed.”
“Yes, Father.”
Aelfric lowered his head again, willing the stinging in his eyes to pass. He could feel Edwald glance his way, curious, maybe even concerned, but neither of them spoke. There was an unspoken rule in Jarrow: you left a grieving brother alone, but not too alone.
He dipped his quill, tapped it gently on the edge of the pot to shake loose excess ink, and returned to the page. The candle’s flame swayed slightly in the breeze, throwing shadows that danced across the vellum.
The text demanded accuracy, reverence. A single crooked ligature could ruin a line, and so Aelfric copied with care, whispering each word as he went. To him, copying Bede was more than duty, it was preservation.
Bede had walked these very halls, his wisdom a beacon for Jarrow’s monks. Aelfric clung to that thought, a tether against the grief that gnawed at his heart.
Two weeks past, Lindisfarne had burned. His brother died in there. Not just him, some of the monks died, some drowned and some were taken as slaves. The tales reached Jarrow on the lips of two trembling monks; heathen men, pagans from across the sea, had come in dragon-prowed ships with their axes gleaming with bloodlust. They killed monks while laughing and plundered the church’s treasures and leaving fire in their wake.
Aelfric had wept until his throat was raw, vowing to honor his brother through prayer and study. Yet, in the quiet moments, he saw his face in the flames of his dreams, and his faith wavered.
The monastery bell rang slowly, one heavy tone at a time, each note spaced by long silence. It was the call to Vespers. Aelfric laid down his quill with care, brushing a loose fleck of vellum from his sleeve. His fingers were cramped from hours of writing, the joints tight and stained dark from oak-gall ink. He breathed out through his nose, stood, and wiped his hands on the cloth at his side.
Around him, benches shifted and feet scraped stone. The other scribes closed their ink pots and arranged their tools with practiced movements. No one spoke. This hour came every day, and each brother knew what to do. Aelfric joined the slow procession moving through the cloister walk. The air outside was cool. His sandals made soft contact with the worn slabs beneath his feet.
The light was fading. It was late in the day, summer. The clouds hung low and unbroken above the River Tyne. The water reflected the sky without color.
From the edge of the courtyard, Aelfric could see the smoke from the kitchen chimney rising straight up. The garden had been watered earlier, and the smell of wet earth still lingered.
The monks moved in a line. Their wool robes were heavy and undyed, drawn in at the waist with simple cords. Most walked with heads down, hands folded. A few were older and moved more slowly. Aelfric walked near Brother Aldwin, who always hummed the opening line of the evening psalm before they even reached the doorway.
The church of St. Paul’s stood ahead of them. Its stone walls had darkened over time, but the structure was solid. The windows were narrow, set deep into the walls. Behind them, the candlelight was visible as small points of light. The wooden doors stood open. The air inside was warmer than the courtyard and it smelled of wax, old wood, and incense.
The monks took their places. Aelfric stood in the second row. He folded his hands and bowed his head. The chant began at once, without signal. One voice opened the line, and the rest followed in sequence: “Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.” The Latin came without thought. They had said these words every evening of their lives.
Aelfric said them too, but his attention drifted. He thought of the river. He thought of the sea beyond it. He thought of the danger beyond those seas. But he kept his mouth moving with the chant, but his eyes stayed open, fixed on the far end of the nave.
Something felt wrong.
But the prayer continued, steady and even, just as it had yesterday and the day before.
After Vespers, he returned to his studies. The scriptorium was empty now, save for Brother Ceolwulf, whose cough echoed in the stillness.
He read aloud softly a passage from Augustine"s confessions, his Northumbrian accent curling around the Latin: “Domine meus, in quo es tu mihi dissimilis?” The words felt distant, like a prayer unanswered.
He wondered if God had turned His face from Lindisfarne, from his friends. His hand trembled, smudging a letter. He sighed, dipping his quill anew, determined to make the page perfect.
The silence in the scriptorium was broken suddenly by a shout from the monastery gate. The cry was sharp and urgent. Aelfric’s head jerked up immediately, and his hand twitched, sending a blot of ink spreading across the vellum.
He stared at the dark stain on the page, then quickly looked toward the heavy oak door that had just been thrown open. The door stood wide, banging slightly against the stone wall. The sudden noise made his heart beat faster.
He was about to rise when he heard heavy footsteps pounding on the stone floor outside. The steps were uneven, hurried, and loud. Then the door burst open wider, and a man stumbled inside. Mud clung to his boots and was tracked across the floor. His cloak was torn and soaked, with dirt smeared in patches. The man’s breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear, and his cheeks were red from running.
Aelfric recognized him immediately. It was Wulfric, the villager who regularly patrolled the river paths and marshy edges. Wulfric was usually calm and steady in his manner, but now his usual composure was gone. He looked exhausted and desperate.
“Brothers,” Wulfric said, voice hoarse and breaking, “they’re coming.” He paused to catch his breath. “Three ships. Dragon-prowed. At the river’s mouth.” He looked around the room, trying to make sure everyone heard. “I saw them just as the sun was setting. They landed on the tidal flats near Hebburn.”
Aelfric’s heart jumped. Hebburn was a small group of fishing huts a few miles downriver. The flats there were muddy and full of reeds, dangerous if you didn’t know the tides.
His hands clenched around his quill. The thin wooden shaft snapped in his grip. He dropped the broken quill onto the desk, breathing faster now.
Brother Ceolwulf stood up slowly, his voice calm but firm. “Send for Abbot Sigfrid,” he said. “We must pray and prepare.”
Without hesitation, Aelfric rose and hurried from the scriptorium, his sandals making sharp sounds on the stone floor as he ran down the corridor toward the abbot’s cell. His breathing was quick. His mind raced through what must be done next.
The monastery stirred quickly. Monks whispered to one another, some clutching prayer beads, others grabbing staffs or farm tools to use as weapons. The lay brothers gathered pitchforks and hoes, their faces pale but determined.
Abbot Sigfrid appeared in the hallway. He was a thin man with sharp eyes. A simple wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck. His voice was steady as he said, “God will protect us.” But his eyes flicked toward the river, where the sky was darkening. Whether it was clouds or smoke, none could tell yet
Word had traveled quickly to Ealdorman Beornred, a local thegn who held a small hall about a mile south of the monastery, near the low rolling hills. Beornred was a seasoned man, his face weathered from years spent outdoors, lines etched deep around his eyes and mouth. He was known for his loyalty to King Aella and his readiness to defend the region. When the news arrived, Beornred wasted no time.
Within the hour, a rider appeared on the road leading to Jarrow. Beornred’s horse was covered in sweat, its sides heaving from the hard ride. The dust clung to the leather saddle and the worn reins, showing signs of a hurried journey.
Behind Beornred followed a small group of men, about a dozen in total. They were armed simply but effectively: spears tipped with iron, round wooden shields painted in faded colors, and leather tunics patched in places where battle or time had worn through. Their boots and trousers were muddied from travel, and their faces were grim and serious, showing no trace of fear despite the urgency of their mission.
Beornred rode with a steady hand, his grip firm on the reins but relaxed, showing control born of years spent in the saddle. His eyes moved carefully across the landscape, watching the tree line, the low hills, and the muddy banks of the river as they approached the monastery.
Every detail mattered: the direction of the wind, the softness of the ground where an enemy might try to slip through unseen, even the position of the sun as it dipped closer to the horizon.
The group approached the monastery gates slowly, the sun low on the horizon. Beornred’s horse moved steadily, the men riding close but silent. Weapons were sheathed, for now.
As they reached the wooden gates, already opened by anxious monks, Beornred dismounted carefully. The men followed, leading their horses inside. The monks greeted them with grave but relieved expressions.
Inside the courtyard, Beornred found Abbot Sigfrid and several monks gathered near the stone wall. Their robes were stained with sweat and dirt, hands clumsy with tools they weren’t used to handling. A cart of loose stones sat half-loaded by the gate. They were trying but it was clear they weren’t soldiers.
Sigfrid stepped forward, is robes shifting slightly as he moved, his voice tired but composed. “You came quickly. We heard news that the heathens are back, and this time with more ships than last time, 3 ships he said, the messenger.”
Beornred gave a short nod. “We heard the same"
Sigfrid’s eyes flicked toward the gate, then toward the armed men behind Beornred. “You’ve only brought... 18 men?”
“That’s all I could gather with short notice. Cynric may bring more. But for now, it’s just us.”
Sigfrid’s face tightened. “Do you think it will be enough?”
Beornred didn’t answer right away. His eyes moved across the courtyard, then to the chapel and the walls beyond. “Enough to slow them. Not enough to break them.”
One of the younger monks, standing behind the abbot, looked alarmed. “Then, then what are we to do?”
Beornred turned slightly, meeting the monk’s eyes directly. “You don’t run out with sticks. That’s what you do.”
Sigfrid raised a hand toward the younger monk, then looked back at Beornred. “We’re not soldiers. We don’t know what to prepare.”
“I know,” Beornred said simply. “That’s my task. Yours is to keep your people inside. The stone buildings will hold longer than any wooden door.”
He turned, gesturing toward the largest building. “Have your novices gather food, water, blankets. Send them into the cellar. No torches and no singing. Keep quiet and wait.”
“What of the older monks?” Sigfrid asked.
“If they can carry stones or fetch water, they’ll help. If they can’t, they stay below.”
The abbot hesitated, then asked quietly, “If they break the gate?”
Beornred looked him in the eye. “We must be prepared for the worst. So you take your relics and hide them deep. Shut the trapdoors and pray they just pass by.”
A silence followed, uneasy and brittle.
Then Brother Huna, standing near the cloister arch with his arms folded, spoke up. His voice was sharp, not disrespectful but edged with urgency. “Or we take the relics and leave now. Bury them deep in the woods if we must. We can pray anywhere. The heathens won’t care if the walls are old or the chapel is holy.”
Abbot Sigfrid turned slowly, his hands clasped before him. “This ground was consecrated by Bede himself. If we abandon it, what message do we carry to the next brothers who try to return?”
“And if we die here?” Huna shot back. “What message is that?”
A pause. Then Ceolwulf, standing near the gate with a hand on the stone, spoke low but clear. “That we held our ground, and that we honored our vows. And left the heathens nothing worth telling.”
Another monk, older and slower, moved toward them from the garden wall. His hands were dusty with soil. “What can we do, then? Carry stones? Bring water?” He glanced toward Beornred. “Tell us.”
Beornred looked over at the half-loaded cart. “That would help more than swinging a sword. You—” he pointed to two younger men nearby, “go with Wulfric. Gather whatever stones and heavy wood you can find. Not for throwing, just to block entry if needed.”
The abbot looked up at the sky. “How long until they come?”
“Could be a while. Could be less,” Beornred answered. “But we’re not leaving and we’ll hold what we can.”
Sigfrid’s face tightened, but he gave a short bow. “Then may God keep your hands steady.”
Beornred’s tone remained steady. “I hope He does more than that.”
The men moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting straps, testing spearpoints, tightening shield grips.
Lay brothers and monks joined, carrying stones and timber to strengthen the gate and barricade vulnerable windows.
After a while, another thegn, Cynric, joined from a nearby estate, bringing ten more. The resistance numbered barely thirty, but their eyes burned with defiance.
The monastery’s bell tolled again, urgent now, not for prayer but for warning. Aelfric’s gaze fixed on the Tyne, where the water gleamed like a blade under the fading light. The Heathens were coming, their shadows lengthening with each step.
Aelfric stood atop the old stone wall beside Beornred, fingers clenched tightly around the rough grain of the parapet. The stones beneath his boots were damp and pitted, worn by years of salt wind and neglect. The wall was barely chest-high, it was more symbolic than useful.
Then he saw it.
A line, no, a shadow on the horizon, where the reeds gave way to the open bend of the river. Long and low. It was unnatural.
Aelfric narrowed his eyes, breath hitching in his chest. The shape became clearer. A carved prow, crested with the shape of a beast. Its mouth open. Its eyes hollow. A dragon.
Behind it came another.
And another.
Three ships, silent but deliberate, slicing upriver. Their hulls rode low but stable, and as they turned slightly with the curve of the water, the long wooden oars appeared, dozens of them, moving in perfect synchronization.
Long shadows spilled out behind them.
Aelfric’s voice came out in a whisper. “They’ve come.”
Beornred didn’t answer. He was already watching. His jaw was locked. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the other held the leather strap of his shield against his shoulder.
The ships came on.
There was no shouting. No drums. Just the dull churn of water and the creaking of timber as the ships closed in. Their prows cut through patches of mist rising from the marsh banks. As they neared, the hulls revealed shields lashed along the sides, yellow, red, black. All looked in good shape.
The dragon heads loomed as the ships angled toward shore.
Oars were pulled in with a sudden, smooth motion, no commands were shouted, and no hesitation. Just precision.
The first hull scraped gently against the riverbed. A soft, wet sound, wood against mud.
Then there was movement.
Dozens of shapes inside the boat shifted, and without a word, the Norse began to disembark.
Boots splashed into the shallow water. Neither rushed. Nor frenzied. But methodical.
Knee-deep in the river, they stepped forward with their axes strapped to backs or gripped in fists. All were wearing furs and leather clothes, no chainmail or armor of any kind.
“They’re too many,” Aelfric muttered.
Beyond the walls, the Vikings had finished disembarking. They were forming ranks now, shields coming off ship rails and falling into place along arms. Not in a rush, for there was no need for one. They knew they had control. It showed in their posture, in the casual way they adjusted straps or tightened axeheads.
One of them stood slightly apart from the rest.
He was younger and noticeably so. Yet none among them questioned his position at the front. Not even the older warriors. He didn’t carry himself like a boy, and none treated him like one.
His hair was strange, pale and almost silver, even under the thick clouds. It moved slightly in the breeze, just enough to catch the eye. A fur cloak hung over his shoulders, dark and soaked in places, the kind that marked a man used to weather.
His right hand rested on his sword that remained sheathed at his hip.
He said nothing at first. Just looked.
His eyes moved along the low and weathered stone walls walls of the monastery, barely higher than a man’s reach. The gate sagged slightly in the middle, swollen with damp and age. It wasn’t a fortress. It was a boundary built by men who had never expected it to be tested
Comments
Aymane Hajjami
monasteries held more concentrated gold and wealth than towns
Wilder
Why are they not attacking the town and waiting till Sunday when it’s unguarded, I always like that brilliant scene
