Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan, Once of Lindisfarne
The Lord tests me in ways I never imagined when I took my vows at Lindisfarne. Here I sit, recording the deeds of these Northmen with the very skills the brothers taught me to glorify God. How strange are His ways.
Someone spat at the ground when I passed this morning. His eyes followed me with contempt, but he said nothing. They never do. None of them dare.
They content themselves with looks, burning stares that follow me like brands against my back.
Bjorn consider me his friend. Friend. When did this happen? When did my captor's son become someone I would die for?
Lagertha watches me with careful calculation, weighing my worth perhaps. But not all are hostile.
Gyda is like an Angel in this Dark place. She is so kind and calm, I'm sure she will grow up to be a very wise women.
Ragnar sits with me by the fire some evenings, asking about my faith, about the monastery, about the books we kept. Not with mockery, but true curiosity.
And Bjorn... Bjorn is my friend now, though I never thought to say such words. He is just 12 years old, and yet wise beyond his years. He brought me furs when the nights turned cold. He shares his meat and his thoughts. We talk—truly talk—about gods, his and our kings and what it means to lead.
Today Bjorn called his men together. The summer warmth is still there , but there's something in his manner that speaks of harder times ahead. I've learned to read these pagans well enough, after all my survival depends on it.
"We cannot wait for the cold to take us by surprise. We must build now, and we must prepare our fires."
Then he looked around at everyone and said something strange, almost like he expected them to understand, but it seems they didn't.
"Winter is coming." He smiled like it meant something important, as if expecting the others to understand, but the others just blinked and nodded, clearly missing the meaning.
And so did I.
Bjorn's a strange one. I don't think we had a clue what he was on about.
I think... God help me, I think he knows something the others don't.
Anyway the work began.
Groups of men took to the forests, felling the trees Bjorn had marked out, they were tall oaks, thick pine, and nothing was wasted. About a hundred and twenty trees in all were brought down.
Six new longhouses were raised from them, they were solid structures with turf roofs, designed to hold warmth and stand through storms.
Each longhouse took a team of thirty to forty men working in shifts for about four weeks. No one pushed too hard, but no one slacked either. The work was loud, and constant.
I helped count the logs and supplies. It felt good to be useful, even if just with numbers.
Bjorn added a detail I hadn't seen before. Under each longhouse, he made them dig out space for dry storage; insulated areas where food and tools could be kept from rot. It's something the villagers hadn't done before. A few questioned it. After the first rain, when the dry pit stayed dry, no one questioned it again.
By the time the nights started cooling, all six stood ready. We moved grain barrels into two of them and bedding into the rest.
But shelter meant nothing without heat.
So while some built, others turned to firewood. Sixty, sometimes seventy-five men a day rotated through the woods, cutting, hauling, stacking. The goal was five hundred carts' worth. Some said it couldn't be done.
We hit two hundred by mid-September.
The stacks grew high and wide beneath the covered sheds Bjorn designed; raised off the ground so the logs wouldn't soak from underneath. Most of the villagers thought firewood was just firewood.
Bjorn showed them how wet wood wastes more fuel and gives less heat.
He doesn't yell when he teaches. Just says, "This way's better," or, "Try it like this."
It's strange how people listen to him, not out of fear, but because he sounds sure and decisive.
I think... God help me, I think he knows something the others don't.
I am no longer Brother Athelstan of Lindisfarne. I don't know what I am now. Because somewhere in my broken faith, I believe he will need these words someday.
The Lord works in ways I cannot fathom. Perhaps He brought me here for this purpose. To witness and remember. To serve a pagan boy who might become something more than any of us can imagine.
God forgive me, but I begin to hope he will.
Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan, Once of Lindisfarne.
The food effort began while the houses were still being built.
Bjorn gathered us again and gave the numbers: six months of food for a thousand people. That's enough to fill several wagons every week, which is more than a dozen oxen could carry. Nobody said it out loud, but I think half the men there thought it was impossible....again
Still, they started.
The fishing boats; eight of them, sometimes more, went out daily. The fish came in heavy and quick at first.
Cod, flatfish, herring. It filled the docks.
The smell hit you in the chest, it was strong and sour. I'll never forget it. They cleaned and gutted everything right there, then sent it off to be smoked or packed in salt.
Three smokehouses burned almost non-stop. I helped one day, just stacking wood. The heat inside was worse than a forge. Sweat soaked everyone to the skin, but no one slowed down.
Old women ran the racks faster than the younger men. They turned the fish just right, kept the fires low and steady, didn't say much.
Meat came from culling; mostly pigs and goats too weak to last the winter. Everything was used. The bones were boiled for broth, the fat stored, the rest smoked or salted. We had only two barrels of salt, so most of it was buried or hung to dry.
The older women and some of the children helped in the fields. We pulled barley, turnips, garlic, and onions. A few pits caved in after heavy rain.
Bjorn made them dig trenches and raised the lids off the ground. He didn't just order it, he grabbed the spade and showed them himself.
Again, There's something odd about him. He doesn't speak like these people. I don't know if he really worships the Pagan Gods.
I wonder what that says about my own faith. I still pray. I say the Lord's Prayer every morning. But sometimes it feels like I'm speaking into cold air. The others call to Odin and Freyr and Thor out loud, unashamed.
And I....I stay quiet.
Sometimes I think God sent me here to be tested. Other times, I wonder if I've already failed.
Still, I write.
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Mid-September, 793 A.D. — Kattegat
The first voice came from the ridge.
"A sail!"
Not shouted in fear, more like someone calling to a neighbor across a fence. The wind caught it and carried it down to the village, where it blended with the sound of hammers and clucking hens and firewood being chopped.
No one stopped. Not at first.
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow but kept his rhythm, hammer hitting hot iron with dull, steady clanks. A child near the water barrel turned to listen, then went back to chasing a wooden hoop. One of the older women by the drying racks turned her head, squinting toward the bluff.
It came again. Louder this time.
"A sail! South fjord, no banner!"
That got a few more heads to turn.
A bucket dropped. Goats bleated as a young herder paused mid-step. Someone by the smokehouse leaned outside with a fish gutting knife still in hand, wiping it absently on a rag while looking south.
"Did he say no banner?""Could be traders.""Not this late, surely.""One sail? Just one?"
The usual murmur started; half concern, half habit. People had seen ships come before. Some friendly. Some not. It didn't take long for the murmurs to turn into sideways glances.
And then came the runner.
Barefoot, breathing hard, cutting across the square with a hand on his chest.
"Ship coming in! South fjord, unknown sail, heading this way!"
He didn't stop to explain. Just kept going straight for the longhouse.
That's when the pace of things shifted.
The apprentice in the forge set his hammer down. A boy handed the goats off to his brother and followed. Someone stepped out from the weaving hall, wiping her hands on her apron.
Doors opened. Curtains were drawn back. People didn't panic — but they paid attention now.
The group near the well exchanged a few words. No shouting. Just that low, shared understanding that it might be something, and it might be nothing, but either way… they ought to be ready.
And when no horn blew, and no word came back from the longhouse, a few began walking that way.
Not rushing.
Just going, because that's where decisions were usually made.
They reached the Earl's longhouse just as the sun began to dip behind the treetops.
They reached the Earl's longhouse just as the sun dipped behind the treetops.
The door was open. Inside, the hearth glowed low and steady, filling the space with the smell of pine pitch and smoke. There wasn't urgency in the air.
Ragnar was near the long table with his arms crossed, listening to a quiet report from one of the older men. His face was calm.
Lagertha stood a few paces back, leaning lightly against the post beside the hearth. A thick shawl wrapped her shoulders, and her hand rested on the small swell of her belly. She didn't speak, just watched the doorway like she was already expecting someone to appear with news.
The runner stepped in, cheeks red from running.
"There's a sail," he said. "South fjord. No banner."
Ragnar looked at him for a second, then nodded once. "We heard the call."
Behind Trygve, a few more villagers filed in quietly but attentive.
An older man near the door asked, "Do we raise the horn?"
Lagertha spoke before Ragnar could answer.
"Let's see what we're dealing with first." She sounded tired.
Another voice, "Could be nothing. Could be just traders."
Ragnar didn't argue. He stepped toward the door and peered out toward the fjord with his eyes narrowing slightly.
"No oars?"
"None," Trygve replied. "They're drifting slowly."
Ragnar turned to one of the men standing by the door. "Take five men and go to the ridge. Stay low, and don't draw unless they land."
The man nodded and left.
Nobody said anything for a bit. Then someone in the back asked, "Where's Earl Bjorn?"
Not like it was urgent or anything.
Ragnar didn't even blink. "He went out early this morning. He'll hear about it soon enough."
That was good enough for now.
There was no shouting and no panic. Just people with serious faces and steady hands, waiting to see what was going to happen.
Lagertha moved away from the post and sat down in a chair nearby. She didn't say anything else, just put her hand back on her belly and stared at the door.
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The wind was stronger up on the ridge. Not cold enough to hurt, but enough to make the trees bend and the tall grass wave around.
Bjorn was crouched behind some rocks and bushes with his hood up. He wasn't moving, just staring at that sail drifting through the fjord below.
One ship. No banner. Just floating with the current.
He didn't look worried. Just calmly watched. like he was measuring the distance the way a carpenter measures wood.
A few steps behind him, Hrafn stood with his arms crossed, spear leaning on his shoulder. He wasn't saying anything either.
They'd been there for a while.
Then they heard boots scraping on dirt behind them. Five men coming up from the village - taking it slow and careful. Bjorn didn't turn around.
The scouts spread out near the ridge, ducking down behind some rocks. They hadn't seen him yet.
"It's still there," one of them whispered. "Just sitting."
"Not rowing," another one said quietly. "What are they waiting for?"
The oldest one, leaned forward and put both hands on his knees. His forehead was all wrinkled up. He didn't say anything.
Bjorn finally stood up. Not fast or anything. Just enough so they could see him.
One of the younger guys jumped a little. He poked the oldest one, who turned around and looked surprised.
"My lord," he said while getting up.
Bjorn gave him a little nod.
"You just get here?" he asked.
"A little while ago," the oldest one said. "We saw the sail. No flag, not moving much. Figured we should take a closer look."
Bjorn looked back at the water. The ship was still there, steady in the current.
"They haven't tried to land," one of the younger scouts said. "Just floating around."
Bjorn didn't answer. He watched as the ship slowly started to turn, like it had nowhere special to be. In a few minutes, it would be gone around the bend.
Only then did he speak, almost like he was talking to himself.
"People will be talking by sundown." Hrafn nodded behind him. Neither of them smiled.
Bjorn turned around and walked back down the path.
The fire in the middle of the village was burning low now, more for warmth than light.
People gathered like they always did at the end of the day. Just wandering over one by one with quiet steps on the packed dirt.
Bjorn sat near the flames, pulling at a piece of dried bread, elbows on his knees. He didn't call anyone over. But the square slowly filled up anyway.
Ragnar showed up first, not saying much with his arms crossed, standing off to the side with a fur cloak over one shoulder. He glanced at Bjorn but didn't interrupt.
Lagertha came next, wrapped up in her shawl, hand briefly touching her growing belly before she sat down on a bench near the fire. Siggy and Thyri sat beside her, always watching with her sharps eyes how people moved, not just Bjorn, but everyone behind him too.
Rollo leaned against a post behind them, chewing on something and frowning like he wasn't sure if this was serious or not.
Athelstan stood a little apart with some birch bark in his hand, not writing yet.
More faces showed up. A few older men. Two women from the smokehouse who still smelled like smoke and salt. Some of the guys from the ridge watch. A boy still holding the horn he'd never blown.
Bjorn didn't stand up.
He just looked at them all. Then said it plain. "The ship was ours."
A little murmur went through the crowd. A few people turned their heads in confusion.
Rollo raised an eyebrow.
"No banner. No horn. No warning," Bjorn said, flicking his bread crust into the fire. "I sent it."
Ragnar kept his arms crossed, but he nodded a little, like he'd already figured that out by now.
"It was a test," Bjorn continued. "To see how fast we'd notice. How fast we'd react."
He looked around, but not at anyone in particular. Still, everyone felt like he was talking to them.
"Some of you moved fast," he said. "Some... waited around. Some didn't know what to do."
He shook his head.
"That's not your fault. That's mine."
Lagertha looked sideways at Ragnar, then back at the fire. Siggy leaned in a little, lips pressed tight.
"We've got one lookout post on the bluff. It's not enough. If that ship had been real..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
"We're going to build watchtowers," Bjorn said instead. "Two of them. Maybe three. High enough to see what's coming. Early enough to actually do something about it."
Rollo finally spoke up. "With what manpower? We're already short-handed for winter prep."
Bjorn nodded. "We'll do it in small teams. Doesn't need everyone, just the right people. Won't take us away from getting food ready."
Someone in the back muttered, "The real danger isn't from strangers, but from people who look like friends."
That got a few quiet chuckles.
Athelstan finally wrote something down.
Siggy asked, "What if they come at night?"
Bjorn answered simply. "We'll build the towers tall. Keep fires burning on top so nothing can sneak up on us."
He let that sink in for a moment before adding, "We need to see them first. Be ready."
Then he stood up. "Tomorrow, I'll show the builders where to put them."
That was it.
There was no big speech or shouting.
People sat there a while longer, talking among themselves, tossing pieces of bark into the fire, thinking it over.
Now they knew there was work to be done, and someone had already started planning it.
When the fire burned even lower, they started heading home quietly, like they always did.
Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan, Once of Lindisfarne.
The evening after the false alarm, I sat by the fire with a strip of birchwood and a stick of charcoal.
Bjorn's test had done its job. The village had seen where their watch was weak, and there was no going back now.
Plans were made quietly..
Bjorn pointed out the spots where the watchtowers would stand. Simple wooden towers, tall enough to see far across the fjord and the hills beyond.
The strongest and most skilled builders were chosen, but everyone helped where they could, from hauling wood and gathering rope to sharpening tools.
The work went slow with no rush. Everyone knew the cold was coming, and these towers would be their eyes when snow and darkness covered the land.
Day by day, the towers climbed a little higher.
Bjorn worked alongside them when he could.
And I kept writing it all down, tracing the story on birchwood strips for those who come after.
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