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34- Division of the Loot
🕑 Added 2025-08-01 23:45:41 +0000 UTCNo one spoke.
Bjorn sat at the head of the hall with his sword on his hip, in the Earl's seat. The same carved oak chair that Haraldson had occupied for years.
Hrafn stood behind him unmoving, eyes sweeping the hall like a hawk searching for prey. His hand rested casually on his sword handle, fingers drumming silently against the leather grip.
Athelstan sat on Bjorn's left, thin slices of birchwood balanced on his lap, a stylus dipped in soot-water ink held ready in his pale fingers. The monk kept his eyes down, but several warriors glared at him with undisguised contempt.
Bjorn's hands rested on the carved arms of the chair.
Sixty men sat below him, packed tight from the door to the fire pit. Veterans with gray beards sat beside boys barely old enough to grow whiskers. Some bore fresh wounds, bandaged arms, healing cuts across cheeks.. Others showed the accumulated scars of many raids.
No one moved. Before them sat two chests. Iron-bound, rune-scratched. One larger, one small.
The larger chest was heavy and iron-bound, its lid carved with runes calling upon Thor's hammer to strike thieves and liars. Inside, rough chunks of hack-silver lay piled unevenly. Some pieces were shards, others shaped into crude ingots roughly the length of a hand, dull and heavy in the flickering light.
Along one side of the chest, scattered piles of Anglo-Saxon pennies rested in leather pouches. Each coin was no larger than a thumbnail, their crosses and worn faces still visible despite years of handling and cutting. The mix of coins and melted silver gave the chest a mottled gleam under the torchlight.
The smaller chest was locked tight, its edges bound with iron strips and its interior lined with coarse wool that still held a faint trace of forge-smoke.
Inside lay a modest collection of gold beads, each no larger than a fingernail, cast from melted-down chalices and reliquaries. They numbered exactly sixty, one for each man.
The rest of the gold, over a kilogram of it, remained in a separate cloth pouch tucked into the corner of the smaller chest. Its surface gleamed dully.
The silence stretched in the Hall.
Someone coughed near the back, it was a wet and harsh sound, but quickly muffled it. A belt creaked as a warrior shifted his weight.
The fire popped and sent sparks spiraling toward the smoke hole.
Athelstan stepped forward with measured steps. He adjusted the brass scales with two fingers quietly with no creak and no wasted motion. The metal plates swayed gently, then settled.
Still, Bjorn didn't speak.
Someone seated in the third row, wiped sweat from his palms onto his woolen breeches. Beside him, someone picked at a scab on his knuckles, the sound audible in the stillness.
Then, at last, Bjorn rose. Not all the way, he just leaned forward with his elbows to knees. His voice, when it came, was calm and measured. Like he'd already decided what came next.
"My brothers," he said, and the words carried easily across the packed hall. "Three days ago, we returned from England across the whale-road. Three days of counting, of weighing, of ensuring each piece of silver is true and not some kind of trickery."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the assembled warriors, But the tension broke slightly.
Alf, sitting close to Alvis in the middle rows, called out: "Did you find any false coins, my lord? I heard the English are crafty with their metal."
"Aye," Bjorn replied, his scarred lips curving into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Found three pieces of tin dressed as silver. It was painted to look proper, weighted with lead cores. But that can't easily fool us."
He spat into the fire pit, and the flames hissed and crackled. "I'm sure they know that by now."
The hall erupted in approving murmurs and dark chuckles. Several warriors nodded, remembering the slaughter.
Erik seated in the front row with the other proven warriors, leaned forward on his bench. His wife had been pestering him for three days about the take. "How much silver did we take, Jarl Bjorn? My Ellisef has been asking since we returned. Says she needs to know how many new arm-rings she can have made before winter."
The hall erupted in knowing laughter. Warriors nudged each other, grinning. They all knew the demands of women when silver came home.
Alf cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Tell Ellisef she'll have enough silver for arm-rings from wrist to shoulder!"
"Tell her she can get a golden nose-ring while she's at it!" added Alvis, stamping his foot on the floor for emphasis.
The laughter grew louder as Men slapped each other's backs and called out their own jokes about demanding wives and expensive women.
Erik didn’t laugh. He sat back with his jaw tight and his hands on his knees. The corner of one eye twitched just once. Then he glanced at Alf and Alvis, as if deciding whether to bother.“Your voices is like a goat’s, boys. Next time, wait till the men are done speaking.”
The laughter cracked, then faded.
Bjorn raised his hand, and the room settled. "Erik, your Ellisef will surely be pleased. And Alf and Alvis—" his voice carried a warning now "—you'll keep your thoughts about other men's wives to yourself, or you'll find yourself swimming in the fjord come morning with stones tied to your ankles."
Alf and Alvis's faces reddened, but they nodded respectfully. "We meant no offense, my lord. Just... well, you know how it is."
"I know exactly how it is," Bjorn replied, his tone softening slightly. "My own mother has been asking me the same questions."
More chuckles followed, softer this time. Even Lagertha could be demanding when treasure was involved.
Bjorn turned back to address the full hall, his voice carrying to every corner. "The hoard before you weighs near two hundred and twenty pounds of silver, not counting the gold or the other treasures. Sixty warriors sailed with me, sixty warriors bled with me."
He paused, letting that sink in. Some warriors leaned forward, eyes fixed on the chests.
"After I take my share, you warriors will share equally in what we've won."
Then Bjorn turned to one of the veterans among the men—Rollo, his uncle, who sat with the other proven fighters in the front rows. "Uncle, remind everyone here. What was Haraldson's portion after every raid?"
Rollo stood slowly, his massive frame unfolding like a bear rising from sleep. He straightened his shoulders and put on a pompous expression, mimicking their former earl's mannerisms.
"'I, as the organizer, financier, and your Earl, take half of all treasure,'" he declared in a mocking imitation of Haraldson's formal tone. "'For without my ships, my planning, and my leadership, you would have nothing but empty bellies and broken dreams.'"
Everybody laughed at this—loud, genuine laughter that filled the hall. Some warriors slapped their thighs, others wiped tears from their eyes. Even the youngest men grinned, though they'd never sailed under Haraldson.
Bjorn waited for the laughter to die, then cleared his throat. The hall quieted instantly, all eyes on him.
"However," he said, his voice cutting through the silence, "I'm not taking half."
A few brows lifted. Some warriors exchanged glances, but no one interrupted. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
Bjorn looked down at the silver chest for a long moment, like he was measuring something in his head. When he looked up, his expression was serious but not stern.
"My share will be a third of the treasure. Not half."
He waited, letting the words settle.
Thorvald the Lame, seated near the wall, spoke up: "A third, my lord? That's... that's generous beyond custom."
"Custom serves custom," Bjorn replied. "I serve my men."
Sveidi raised a gnarled hand. "My lord, if you take a third, what does that leave for the rest of us?"
Bjorn smiled—the first genuine smile he'd shown all evening. "That leaves enough for each of you to walk away with five and a half marks. A good weight of silver."
The hall erupted in surprised voices. Men turned to their neighbors, calculating quickly in their heads. Five and a half marks was more silver than most had ever seen at one time.
"Five and a half marks?" Erik breathed. "By Thor's hammer..."
"That's enough to build farmsteadif you chose to settle," muttered Ulf Iron-Nose.
"Or a get a share in a new ship," added someone else.
"Or even a decent bride-price."
Bjorn raised his hand for quiet again. "So my share will be one hundred sixty-seven marks; about sixty-seven pounds. The remaining silver, about one hundred thirty-three pounds, gets divided among you sixty men. Five and a half marks each, just over two pounds of silver per man."
Alf's eyes were wide as plates. "Two pounds of silver? My lord, that's more than my father made in five years of farming."
"Then spend it wisely," Bjorn advised. "As my father uses to say; Silver spent on foolishness buys nothing but regret."
Bjorn remained seated for a moment longer, studying the faces below him. Then he reached beside his chair and lifted a small linen pouch that had been sitting beside the sealed chest. The sound of metal shifting inside was soft, but in the stillness of the room, it carried clearly.
He untied the cord with deliberate slowness. Every eye in the hall was fixed on his hands.
Without ceremony, he rose and stepped down from the high seat, the pouch in one hand.
No one spoke. No one moved.
From the pouch, he poured a dozen gold beads into his palm. They were small, round, their surfaces dull from hasty casting. Melted down from what had once been crosses and chalices, now reduced to simple, measured weights. The pouch held more. Enough for all.
Bjorn held up one bead between finger and thumb, letting the firelight catch its surface.
His voice, when it came, didn't need volume to carry. "This as you can see...is not a ring."
He let that settle. Several warriors shifted uncomfortably. A few exchanged uncertain glances.
"This is not a reward for courage. This is not payment for blood spilled or the risks taken."
He looked out over the faces. Sixty of them, seasoned fighters and green boys alike.
"We lost Sigmund on this raid. Others bled and will carry scars forever. They'll be looked after. But this—" he held up the bead again "—this is for something else. Something none of you have reached for yet."
Old Leif frowned. "What would that be, my lord?"
Bjorn stepped forward and placed the first gold bead in Leif's weathered palm. No flourish. No ceremony. Just the press of warm metal into calloused skin.
"Not a gift," he said quietly. "It's a promise of what's to come for those who prove themselves worthy of more than silver."
He moved to Erik next, placing a bead in his cupped hands. "Not for what you've done, but for what you might do."
Then to Kauko, who accepted the gold with a puzzled expression. "A reminder that there are things worth more than treasure."
Bjorn moved methodically through the ranks, placing a bead in each man's palm. Some warriors met his gaze directly. Others looked away, uncomfortable with the solemnity of the moment. A few closed their fists tightly around the gold, as if afraid it might vanish.
When he reached Alf, the young man's hand was shaking slightly. "My lord, I don't understand. What does this mean?"
"It means you have potential," Bjorn replied simply. "Don't waste it."
The older warriors watched in thoughtful silence. They'd seen jarls distribute silver and arm-rings before, but this felt different. More personal. More... significant.
When Bjorn reached the last man, he turned back toward the high seat. He didn't climb the steps again. Instead, he stood at the base, the nearly empty pouch still in his hand.
"I'll keep the rest of the gold," he said. "Not for myself. For those who earn something greater next time."
He tied the pouch, and the remaining gold within clinked softly—a sound like distant bells.
"Let that be what you fight for. Not just silver to spend, but gold to mark your worth."
Thorstein cleared his throat. "My lord, what would we need to do? To earn such a thing?"
Bjorn's smile was enigmatic. "You'll know when the time comes."
He turned to address a specific concern. "Also, for Sigmund—his share will be entrusted to his brother Hakon here, to be given to his wife. She'll also be exempt from taxes for two years, unless she chooses to remarry."
Hakon, a stocky man with prematurely gray hair, stood and bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord. She will... she'll be grateful. The children too."
"Sigmund died with honor," Bjorn replied. "His family will be cared for as long as I draw breath."
Now came the practical matter. Bjorn gestured toward Athelstan, who rose from his seat with the scales and recording materials.
"Now, one by one, come forward to take your portion of the treasure. When you reach Athelstan, give him your name for the records."
The first man to rise was Torstig. He approached the chest with dignity, and his eyes held only disappointment and no anticipation."
Athelstan weighed out his portion carefully, placing the silver in a leather pouch.
"Torstig.... the Forsaken," the old warrior said clearly, and Athelstan scratched his head, awkwardly, then scratched the name onto his birchwood tablet.
As Torstig walked back to his seat, hefting the weight of silver, other warriors began to rise. They formed a rough line, maintaining the informal hierarchy of age and experience.
Erik came forward next, trying to hide his excitement. He announced his name, and Athelstan nodded, making his mark.
Some warriors looked at Athelstan with open contempt as they gave their names. "Don't like taking orders from a Christian," muttered Ulf under his breath, though he still complied.
"But i'm not the one who is giving the orders now, am i?," Athelstan replied quietly. "I am just the recorder of the earl."
The process continued steadily. Each man received his leather pouch of silver, gave his name, and returned to his seat. The weight of metal changed hands with satisfying clinks and thuds.
When the silver had all been distributed and the recording completed, warriors began gathering their cloaks and weapons, preparing to leave. The formal ceremony was over, and most were eager to return home and show their families their newfound wealth.
But just as the first men reached the door, Bjorn called out: "Uncle, you stay for a minute. Everyone else, Go well."
The departing warriors paused to offer thanks and farewells. "Good night, my lord."
"Thank you, Jarl Bjorn."
"May the gods keep you."
As the hall emptied, Hrafn remained at his post behind the high seat, motionless as a carved statue.
"You too, Hrafn," Bjorn said without turning around.
Hrafn looked genuinely surprised. In all his years of service, he'd never been dismissed from a private conversation. "As you wish, my lord."
The man gathered his weapons and cloak, bowing slightly before following the other warriors into the night.
Soon, only Bjorn, Rollo, and Athelstan remained in the great hall. The monk had finished his record-keeping and was carefully storing his materials.
"Athelstan," Bjorn said. "You can go as well. Thank you for the careful work."
The monk bowed. "Of course. The records are complete." He paused at the door. "That was... Thank you for this chance. I feel fulfilled when i serve."
"Then don't complain if work you to death," Bjorn replied simply.
When Athelstan had gone, the hall felt suddenly vast and empty. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor where sixty warriors had sat just moments before.
Bjorn moved from the high seat to a bench closer to the fire pit. The carved chair seemed too formal, too much like playing earl when he just wanted to talk to his uncle.
Rollo joined him without invitation, settling heavily onto the bench with a grunt.
Bjorn reached for a clay jug that sat beside the fire and poured mead into two horn cups. The liquid was golden in the firelight, sweet-smelling and potent.
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the rain on the roof and the occasional pop of the fire.
"How's life treating you lately, uncle?" Bjorn asked finally, his eyes still on the dancing flames.
Rollo smirked faintly, the expression making him look younger despite his graying beard. "Not bad, I suppose. You've made things more interesting here, I'll give you that."
They drank again. The mead was strong, warming Bjorn's chest and loosening the tension in his shoulders.
"How are things going with Siggy?" Bjorn asked casually, though his tone suggested the question wasn't as casual as it seemed. "I heard you two have become... close."
Rollo's eyes sharpened slightly. "Really? Do you have men following me around now, nephew?"
"They watch Siggy," Bjorn replied without defensiveness. "You just appeared in their line of sight. Can't be helped when you're sharing her bed."
Rollo leaned back against the wall, studying his nephew's profile. "Yes, I am. Is that a problem?"
Bjorn didn't answer immediately. He took another sip of mead, apparently considering his words.
Rollo added, "Lagertha welcomed her into the hall, made her part of the household. So it doesn't matter whether I'm sleeping with her or not, she's under your protection either way."
"That she did," Bjorn agreed. "Mother has a generous heart." He paused. "She's a beautiful woman, and she's been through hell. I guess sometimes a man and woman just find comfort in each other's arms."
"That is true, and Besides," Rollo continued, "she makes it clear she's not looking for another husband. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever."
They fell silent again, comfortable in each other's company despite the serious topics.
Then Bjorn shifted, setting down his cup and turning to face his uncle more directly.
"Anyway," he said, "what I really wanted to talk to you about is something else entirely."
Rollo raised an eyebrow. "Go on, then."
Bjorn looked at the cup in his hands, turning it slowly between his fingers. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "No one knows this yet, but from now on, anyone who wants to lead men under my banner will need to learn to read. And write."
Rollo blinked, then stared at his nephew as if he'd just announced he was becoming a Christian monk. "What? You're serious?"
Bjorn met his gaze steadily. "Dead serious."
Rollo set down his cup with a sharp clink. "So now it's letters and ink before swords? Where's the honor in scratching marks on wood? Where's the glory in that?"
"Not instead of swords," Bjorn clarified. "Alongside them. You should be able to do both."
He leaned forward, his expression intense. "You've led men before, uncle. You fight well, one of the best warriors I know. But times will be changing faster than you will realize."
Rollo snorted. "Times are always changing. We warriors adapt."
"Exactly. And this is how we adapt." Bjorn's voice grew more animated. "I am going to build something that lasts, something that reaches beyond these shores and time itself, and therefore i need men who can record agreements, count properly, send messages across the sea without having to carry them in their mouths."
Rollo shifted uncomfortably. "You want me scribbling like that priest of yours?"
Bjorn's mouth tightened slightly, then he leaned forward. "But I want you to be able to read orders, write reports, sign your name to agreements, keep accurate count of supplies and men. Basic skills that any leader needs."
Then Bjorn looked deep into his eyes and continued, "Basic skills that any great man needs."
Rollo looked into the fire for a long moment, his expression troubled. "So that's the price now? Reading?"
"It's not a price," Bjorn replied. "It's a tool. The same way you learned to use different weapons for different situations."
"A sword I understand. But runes..." Rollo shrugged.
"Letters. Letters are weapons too, uncle. Just different ones. They let you fight battles across vast distances, make agreements that hold firm even when you're not there to enforce them personally."
Rollo remained silent, clearly wrestling with the concept.
Bjorn pressed on: "Think about it practically. When we trade with distant lands, how do we know we're getting what was promised? When we make alliances with other jarls, how do we ensure the terms are remembered accurately? When we plan complex raids involving multiple groups, how do we coordinate without confusion?"
"We've managed so far," Rollo muttered.
"Have we? How many deals have gone wrong because of misunderstandings? How many opportunities have we lost because we couldn't communicate properly with potential allies?"
Rollo considered this, his expression thoughtful now rather than dismissive.
"Of course, it will be a while before I implement this fully," Bjorn continued. "But I'm telling you first, before anyone else. Not even father knows about this plan yet."
He fixed Rollo with a direct stare. "So I need to know, are you with me on this? Can I trust you to learn, to set an example for the other men? Or am I wasting my time here?"
The fire crackled between them. Outside, the rain continued its steady drumming on the roof.
Rollo finished his mead in one long swallow, then set the cup aside. "You're asking me to change everything I've ever known about being a warrior."
"I'm asking you to add to what you know," Bjorn corrected. "Your sword arm will always matter. Your courage in battle will always be important. But now I need more from my leaders."
Rollo was quiet for another long moment. Then he looked up, meeting Bjorn's eyes.
"If I agree to this... how would it work? I can't just suddenly start reading like a monk."
Bjorn smiled, the first genuine smile he'd shown all evening. "Athelstan will teach you. Basic skills first, letters, numbers, simple words. Nothing fancy."
"That Christian?" Rollo's face twisted with distaste.
"That Christian is the most learned man within fifty miles of here," Bjorn replied firmly. "And he's proven his loyalty to this family many times over. Besides, reading isn't a Christian skill, it's just a skill."
Rollo grunted, not entirely convinced but not arguing further. "How long would this take?" he asked.
"Months, But thankfully not years. A motivated man can learn basic reading in a season or two. Writing takes a bit longer, but not much."
"And the other men? How will they react when they find out their leaders are... studying?"
Bjorn had clearly thought about this. "Some will hesitate, initially. But they'll change their tune when they see the advantages it brings. Better planning, clearer communication, more successful raids."
He paused. "Besides, I'm not asking every warrior to become a scholar. Just the leaders. The men who need to make decisions and coordinate with others."
Rollo rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain a warrior, not a leader," Bjorn said simply. "I value your strength and experience too much to cast you aside. But I can't have men leading others if they lack the tools for the job."
The ultimatum hung in the air between them, not harsh but absolutely firm.
Finally, Rollo sighed deeply. "You're really serious about this."
"I am."
"And you think it will make us stronger?"
"I know it will."
Another long silence. Then Rollo nodded slowly. "All right. I'll try your reading lessons. But if I make a fool of myself scratching letters like a child..."
"You won't," Bjorn assured him. "And even if you struggle at first, no one will mock you for trying to improve yourself."
Rollo grinned suddenly. "They might not mock me, but they'll certainly be surprised. Rollo learning letters, that'll be something to see."
"Rollo adapting to new challenges," Bjorn corrected. "Just like he always has."
They drank again, the tension between them eased. The conversation had taken an important turn, and both men knew it.
"When do we start?" Rollo asked.
"Tomorrow you'll start learning with Ragnar and Lagertha. Nothing too intense at first, just the basics."
"I thought you said no one knew about this."
"They don't know about new law, but Athelstan has been teaching them for a while now."
Rollo sighed. "And the other potential leaders? Who else will you pick?"
Bjorn considered. "Well aside from Father, that is yet to be seen."
"What about Floki?"
Bjorn's expression grew complicated. "Floki is... different. Brilliant, but unpredictable. I'm not sure reading would interest him."
"He might surprise you. Floki loves puzzles and clever solutions."
"I do know that, but we will see."
They finished their mead as the fire burned lower, both men lost in thought about the changes coming to their world.
Finally, Rollo stood, stretching his back with a groan. "I should go. Siggy will wonder where I am."
"Uncle," Bjorn called as Rollo reached for his cloak. "Thank you. For listening and for agreeing to try. It means more than you know."
Rollo paused, looking back at his nephew and smiled. "You're a good nephew, you know. But still can't grow a beard though."
"Give it time. I’m building a kingdom first. The beard comes after."
Rollo let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Always an excuse.” He pulled his cloak over one shoulder, gave Bjorn a parting look of half affection, half mockery, and stepped out into the night.
Bjorn stayed seated. The fire in the longhall had burned down low, casting the walls in shifting shadows.
For a long while, he didn’t move. Just stared at the gold bead still in his hand, turning it once between his fingers.
Then, without raising his voice, he called out, “Hrafn.”
A few moments passed. Hrafn appeared in the doorway, still armed, ever watchful.
Bjorn didn’t look at him at first. His eyes were on the coals. “I think I misread Haraldson,” he said. “We’ve been searching for his treasure for days. But maybe there was never a plan to flee.”
He turned toward Hrafn now, brow furrowed.,“Do you know where his sons were buried?”
Hrafn nodded. “Aye. On the ridge above the north trail.” He hesitated a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “…You think he might’ve buried the treasure with them?”
Bjorn shook his head. “No, not in the graves. But he cared about them. He might’ve buried something nearby.”
He stood slowly. “Send men quietly. Have them search the ground around the burial stones.”
Hrafn didn’t ask why. He just gave a short nod and slipped out into the dark.
Bjorn remained by the fire, alone again. Still turning that bead of gold between his fingers.
Comments
Aymane Hajjami
I'm working on the chapter, thank you for waiting!!!
Gray
More please
JL
This is good! More please!
