I did my best to stay accurate, especially when it comes to Christian details, so I hope nothing feels off to anyone reading.
-x-X-x-
The gate stood open and carts rolled through in both directions, their wheels grinding against the packed earth.
Guards leaned against the walls on either side, spears held loosely. They looked tired and bored.
Smoke rose from inside the city.
The sound came next; iron hammering, animals braying and voices layered on top of each other until they became a low roar.
Bjorn and Ragnar joined the line of people entering. A woman ahead of them carried a basket of eggs, moving carefully to keep them from breaking. A boy struggled with a thin cow that kept trying to stop and eat the grass at the roadside. An old man bent under a load of firewood, his back curved, his steps small and painful.
They looked like everyone else. Two more people coming to market.
The guards watched the line approach. Both wore rough wool tunics and leather vests. Their spears had seen use; the wood was worn smooth where hands gripped them.
Bjorn walked slightly ahead of Ragnar. He wore the simple brown habit of a church apprentice. A wooden cross hung from his neck on a leather cord, crude but visible. His head was shaved completely bare, the skin pale where the sun hadn't touched it.
Ragnar stayed a step behind. His face was empty. No expression. Just the blank look of a man who worked with his hands and thought very little.
They reached the gate.
The younger guard straightened slightly. His eyes moved over them, pausing on Bjorn's cross, then shifting to Ragnar.
"Where from?" He asked in English.
Ragnar said nothing. He stared at a point somewhere past the guard's shoulder.
Bjorn stepped forward immediately. He let his shoulders slump and made his eyes small and sad.
"From the villages that were just raided, good sir." His English was clear, the words carefully chosen. "We are looking for a place to stay at, until tomorrow then we will leave. God's peace upon your watch."
The guard studied him. His eyes went to the cross again. Stayed there for a moment. Then back to Bjorn's face.
All he could see was a young, harmless and sad person with history of suffering.
The guard's posture relaxed slightly. "why, You survived that, huh?"
Bjorn nodded slowly. "With God's help, praise him."
"I heard everyone there was either killed or taken with the heathens to the sea. Only God knows where."
"I have fled with the help of this friend here." Bjorn gestured toward Ragnar without looking at him. "If wasn't for him, I wouldn't know what would happen to me."
The guard's attention shifted from Bjorn to Ragnar.
He looked at Ragnar properly now. Took in the broad shoulders. The thick forearms. The hands that were scarred and calloused, the knuckles enlarged from years of gripping things tightly.
Those were not farmer's hands. Or maybe they were, but it could be other things as well.
The guard stared.
Ragnar's face didn't change. He wore an expression of a man who never had an interesting thought in his life.
The silence stretched out and the guard kept staring. His grip on his spear shifted slightly, not raising it to attack, but just adjusting.
Behind them, someone coughed. Then a voice called out, "Come on, move along!"
Another voice joined in. "Some of us have matters to attend to!"
The line was backing up and people were getting impatient.
The guard glanced back at the crowd, then at Ragnar again.
He grunted, a small annoyed sound, and stepped aside. "Go on."
Bjorn bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you, good sir. God bless."
They walked through the gate at a moderate pace. They were just two travelers with nothing to worry about.
And the city swallowed them.
-x-X-x-
The street closed in around them. Timber buildings leaned over the road, their eaves so low Ragnar could have reached up and touched the thatch if he wanted to. The walls were patched and crooked, some held together with mud and straw, others reinforced with chunks of old stone that looked like they'd been pulled from Roman ruins.
Bjorn's first breath inside the city walls made him want to gag. He didn't. He kept his face neutral and breathed through his mouth.
The smell was everything at once. Sweat and piss and animal shit. Smoke from cooking fires. Fish rotting somewhere nearby. The sharp burn of hot metal from a forge. Underneath it all, something sweet—bread baking, maybe—but it couldn't cover the rest.
His boots squelched in the mud. The whole street was covered in it. In some places, someone had thrown down wooden planks to make a path. In others, you just had to wade through. A gutter ran down the center, carrying things Bjorn decided not to look at too closely.
People were everywhere. A woman with a basket of fish pushed past them without looking up. Three children ran by, barefoot, shrieking and laughing. A porter grunted under a yoke across his shoulders, two barrels swinging as he walked. Everyone wore the same thing—rough wool, patched and layered. Half of them had knives on their belts. Small ones. Working knives.
Ragnar walked slowly. His eyes tracked everything. The doors. The alleys. The way one street connected to another. Bjorn could see him memorizing it all, building a map in his head.
Bjorn kept his head down. Hands folded. He was just a humble monk. Harmless even.
A boy ran past with a dog at his heels, both of them kicking up mud. An old woman crouched next to a basket, carefully dabbing oil along the rim. A vendor squatted by his brazier, blowing on the coals to keep them hot.
The street opened up ahead.
More space which meant more noise.
-x-X-x-
The market square was where several streets met. Some stalls were permanent, built against the sides of shops. Others were temporary—planks on barrels, cloth stretched between poles.
Fish were everywhere. Salted. Dried. Laid out on boards.
And the smell was strong.
Blocks of salted pork stacked in pyramids. Sacks of oats and barley leaning against each other. Small grain merchants with scales, measuring carefully.
Wool and hides in piles. Bolts of rough cloth. Iron tools—hammers, nails, knives. A few goods on one table: glass beads, brooches, things that caught the light.
Merchants argued with customers. Voices rose and fell.
A clerk sat at one stall with a wooden tablet, scratching marks into the wax with a stylus. Recording something.
Ragnar stopped walking. Just for a moment. His eyes moved over the market, taking it all in.
This place alone had more people than all of Vestfold. More goods than he'd seen in one place in his life. This was what wealth looked like when it concentrated in one spot.
Bjorn touched his arm lightly and kept walking.
They moved through the crowd. Bjorn's eyes went to the church quarter ahead.
-x-X-x-
The church was built using stones. Bigger than the timber houses around it. A porch at the entrance. A nave. Small side chapels on either side. A bell tower rising above it all, marking the hours.
Bjorn stared at it. His plan relied entirely on this place where the royal family would come to pray and no one would have weapons on them.
Bjorn turned his attention to the next landmark.
The Hall
The noble hall sat on elevated ground. Large. Raised timber construction. Carved beams. Painted panels. Banners hanging from the eaves, showing allegiance and lineage.
He saw next King Ælla's residence. It had to be.
Guards were everywhere. At the doors. At the corners. All of them walking the perimeter.
Bjorn didn't look at it for long. Too much attention would be noticed.
He and Ragnar moved into a side street. It was narrower and darker. The smell was even worse here.
The alleyways branched off the main streets like veins. They were darker, the buildings blocking most of the light. The smell was stronger—tanners and butchers worked here. Vats of urine for tanning. Piles of offal. Drying racks with hides stretched tight.
The houses were cramped, all had small yards with cesspits and shared ovens.
Children were playing with carved bone toys in the mud.
Bjorn counted the guards as they walked. Eight at the river gate. Probably the same at the other gates.
The town watch patrolled in small groups, moving through the lanes and along the quays. More guards near the hall.
They turned a corner and almost walked into two priests.
Both were young. Maybe eighteen, twenty. They wore simple habits like Bjorn's. But their hair was different.
They had tonsures. The crowns of their heads shaved, a circle of bare skin, but hair remaining around the sides and back.
Bjorn's head was completely bald.
The priests stopped completely and stared.
Bjorn bowed his head respectfully. "God's peace, brothers."
The priests exchanged a glance. One of them nodded slowly. "God's peace."
They kept staring at Bjorn's head. Their expressions were confused.
But they said nothing. Just nodded again and walked past.
Bjorn watched them go. Saw them lean toward each other and whisper. He saw their heads turn back once, then again.
They were going to talk about him and report him.
A monk with the wrong haircut was breaking rules.
Bjorn's plan was to find the priests, it seemed luck sent them to him.
Bjorn kept walking. Ragnar stayed beside him, no longer wearing that blank expression.
They moved deeper into the city. Explored the lanes. Memorized the layout. Bjorn's mind worked constantly, filing away every detail.
An hour passed. Maybe two.
Then they heard footsteps behind them. They were not random but they came to them directly.
Bjorn turned to study the newcomers.
A brother stood there. Older than the two priests from before. Maybe forty. His tonsure was precise, the circle of bare skin perfectly round. His habit was clean. His hands were folded at his waist.
He looked at Ragnar briefly. Then his eyes settled on Bjorn. On his bald head.
His expression was unreadable.
"Follow me, Brother." His voice was calm and firm. "The Archbishop is waiting for you."
Bjorn's heart didn't speed up. He was prepared for this moment.
He glanced at Ragnar with just a brief look.
Bjorn turned back to the brother and nodded. "Of course."
He followed the man, leaving Ragnar standing in the alley.
The brother walked ahead and not looking back, not even once to check if Bjorn was following him. His pace was neither fast or slow.
They moved through the streets and away from the market. Toward the church quarter.
Bjorn kept his breathing even, his hands relaxed and his face humble.
He was about to meet the Archbishop. The highest authority in Eoforwic's church.
-x-X-x-
The brother led him through a stone archway and the air changed immediately. The noise from the street faded behind them.
Bjorn's boots clicked against the stone floor where each step echoed. The walls were thick, the kind that would muffle screams if anyone decided to make them. He kept that thought to himself and followed.
Narrow windows let in thin streams of sunlight that cut through the dim corridor. Lamps burned in alcoves along the walls—tallow, not oil, he could tell by the smell. The light flickered and jumped. Shadows moved on the stone, stretching and shrinking.
Somewhere ahead, he could hear voices. Chanting, maybe. Or just monks talking in that low murmur they all seemed to use.
The sound carried through the halls, bouncing off the stone until you couldn't tell where it was coming from.
They walked for what felt like a long time but probably wasn't. They turned a corner. Then another. And the brother didn't look back once.
Finally, they stopped at a heavy wooden door. The brother knocked twice and waited. Then pushed it open and stepped aside.
"Enter and wait here," he said, not unkindly.
Bjorn entered.
The hall was larger than he expected. High ceiling and more of those narrow windows. A raised table at the far end, positioned so whoever sat there could look down at everyone else.
The Archbishop sat behind it. Bjorn assumed.
He was old with white beard that's neatly trimmed. Heavy robes that looked like they weighed as much as a chain shirt. Dark fabric with embroidered edges. A staff leaned against the table beside him, wood wrapped in gold-colored cloth.
But Bjorn barely glanced at him.
Two women sat in chairs facing the Archbishop. Both wore clothes that didn't belong in this city. Silk. Real silk, not the rough wool everyone else wore.
They also had embroidery on the sleeves and necklines and Jewelry that caught the lamplight.
The older woman sat straighter. Her back didn't touch the chair. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced.
She was maybe thirty, maybe older, but her skin was smooth. Maybe Too smooth. Like she'd never worked a day in her life. Her face was composed, carefully neutral, but Bjorn could see it in the way she held her shoulders, the way her fingers pressed together just a little too tightly.
She was afraid. Bjorn didn't know from what exactly. But he could guess that only a threat to her life would be enough to scare her. Or her children.
And it was either the famous SilverHair Heathen or something else. Bjorn had also heard a lot about his name being spoken in the market when he came in.
He got quite the reputation.
'The queen.' Bjorn thought while looking at the older woman. However, he didn't really remember her name.
The younger woman, not even a women, just a girl, sat beside her. She was eighteen, maybe. Could be sixteen. It was hard to tell with women—they aged differently when they weren't breaking their backs in the fields.
She had dark hair, mostly hidden under a veil. And she had Pale skin. She sat very still, her hands folded the same way her mother's were. Her face showed nothing. No fear or boredom. Nothing.
'Princess Judith.' Bjorn thought. He remembered her name clearly.
Bjorn kept looking while he stood where the brother had told him to stand; a space separated from the main hall by a wooden partition.
Not quite a room, just an alcove. A waiting area.
He could see through the gaps in the wood, hear everything clearly.
Servants moved quietly near the walls, shuffling parchments, carrying things Bjorn didn't bother identifying. They kept their eyes down and their mouths shut.
Bjorn settled against the wall and watched.
The conversation continued. More talk about things Bjorn didn't fully understand—grain shipments, something about tithes, a dispute with a monastery to the north. The Queen answered when spoken to. The Princess mostly stayed silent.
Bjorn watched them both. The way the Queen held herself too rigidly. The way the Princess's eyes occasionally drifted to the windows, then snapped back when the Archbishop addressed her. The way they both sat like they were being judged.
Maybe they were.
The man had quite the power.
He remembered something about Judith, she would kill her own son in the future for the sake of her other son.
Bjorn looked at her sitting there, young and quiet, and wondered if she knew what she would become. If any part of her could feel it coming.
Probably not. Nobody ever did.
Time passed slowly and the conversation dragged on. Bjorn just stood there like a good little monk and listened.
Finally, the Archbishop raised one hand. The gesture was small but final.
"That will be all, Queen Ealhswith. Princess."
He made a small cross in the air with two fingers. His lips moved, murmuring something in Latin. A blessing and a dismissal.
'Ealhswith, huh.' Bjorn thought.
The Queen stood immediately. The Princess followed a heartbeat later. Their movements were synchronized.
A servant hurried to the door and pulled it open. Another gathered the cushions they'd been sitting on. A third picked up a small wooden box from the floor near the Queen's chair—jewelry, probably, or documents.
The Queen moved toward the door and the Princess followed.
As they passed the partition where Bjorn stood, both of them looked at him.
Just a quick glance.
The Queen's eyes swept over him—his bald head, his plain habit, his folded hands—and moved on. Uninterested.
The Princess looked longer. Her eyes met his for just a second. Something flickered in her expression. Confusion, maybe.
Bjorn bowed his head immediately and kept his eyes down. He was a monk. So he played the part.
He didn't stare and certainly didn't hold her gaze. Women had instincts that men didn't. They could sense things. Feel when something was wrong even if they couldn't explain why.
Bjorn wasn't going to test that today.
The Princess's footsteps paused. Just for a heartbeat.
Then she kept walking.
The door closed behind them and the servants followed. Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
-x-X-x-
The hall stayed quiet after the Queen and Princess left.
Bjorn stood in his waiting spot behind the partition.
The Archbishop kept reading his parchment. Minutes passed and the silence dragged on. The only sounds were the distant murmuring of monks somewhere in the complex and the occasional rustle of parchments when the old man turned a page.
Finally, a clerk appeared from a side door. Young, maybe twenty-five, with a proper tonsure and ink stains on his fingers. He looked at Bjorn and gestured with one hand.
"Come."
Bjorn stepped out from behind the partition and crossed the floor. His footsteps echoed. Each one seemed louder than the last. The hall was big enough that the sound bounced off the walls and came back at him.
He stopped a few paces from the raised table and waited.
The Archbishop looked up.
His eyes were sharp. Neither kind or cruel. Just sharp and tired.
He studied Bjorn. Looked at his face first, then his shoulders, then back to his completely bald head. The old man's eyes lingered there. His forehead creased slightly.
Bjorn followed the protocol Athelstan had drilled into him. He bowed. Not too deep. Not too shallow. Just enough to show respect without looking like he was trying too hard.
Then he waited with his Hands folded and his mouth shut. Let the Archbishop speak first.
The old man didn't disappoint.
"Tell me," he said. His tone was formal. "What's your name?"
"Brother Chadus," Bjorn answered. He kept his voice respectful.
The Archbishop repeated it slowly. "Chadus." He rolled the name around in his mouth like he was tasting it. Then something shifted in his expression. "Like Saint Chad of Mercia."
Bjorn smiled. Just a little. He nodded once.
There were two reasons he'd picked that name. First, because of Saint Chad. The man was famous enough that even a country monk would know about him.
Second, because Bjorn thought it was kind of funny. He was basically a Giga Chad for walking into Eoforwic with just Ragnar.
The thought almost made him smile wider, but he kept his face under control.
The Archbishop stared at him for another few seconds. Then his eyes drifted back to Bjorn's head. His curiosity returned, sharper this time.
"Where are you from?" he asked. "And why don't you have the same tonsure as the other brothers?"
He was studying Bjorn carefully now. Taking in his age—young, clearly, even though he was tall for his years. The bald head looked cleanly shaved. Smooth. Like someone had taken a blade to it recently and done a careful job.
The Archbishop had seen this before. Untrained boys sent from country chapels.
Some of them showed up with bad haircuts because they'd tried to do it themselves and didn't know any better. This looked like that, maybe.
He'd seen plenty of this type. Boys who needed food and a roof more than they needed God, but who learned eventually. Some were bright. Some weren't. Most were forgettable.
But this one was different. The height was unusual. The quiet composure was unusual. That combination made him stick in your memory.
And there was something behind those blue eyes. Not arrogant, but not dull either.
The Archbishop felt a mild interest stirring. This was the first time he'd encountered someone quite like this.
Bjorn let the silence sit for a moment before answering.
"I'm from one of the villages that were attacked by the heathens from the sea," he said quietly.
The Archbishop's face shifted. His mouth tightened. He made a small cross gesture with his hand and muttered a prayer under his breath in Latin.
Bjorn went on. He kept his voice low. Like he was trying not to let the memories hurt too much.
"I was with a small house of brothers near the river mouth. Just a few of us. We tended to the fishermen. Sent alms to the Minster when we could. It wasn't much, but it was honest work."
He paused. Let his eyes drop to the floor.
"And then they came. The heathens. They arrived at dawn. Burned the chapel. Killed those who resisted. Took others away in chains." His voice dropped even lower. "I was lucky. Their ships were already full. If they'd had room, I'd be gone too. One of them spoke our tongue—don't know where he learned it—and he mocked our tonsure. Said our heads made us look like half-shorn sheep."
Bjorn's jaw tightened. He made it look like anger he was trying to control.
"To shame me, they shaved away the rest. Held me down and did it while laughing. But the Lord teaches that—"
The Archbishop's eyes blazed. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the stone floor.
"Those men!" His voice echoed through the hall. "No! No! They are not men. They are ungodly! Heathens! They burn and steal and they laugh when they do it!" His hands clenched into fists on the table. "They are cruel and blasphemous and they deserve nothing but hell's fire!"
He was breathing hard. His face had gone red. The anger poured out of him in waves.
Then, just as suddenly, he sat back down. Dropped into his chair and went quiet.
He looked around the Hall. "They will answer for this."
Several heartbeats passed. The Archbishop's breathing slowed. He stared at Bjorn, clearly expecting something.
Bjorn knew what the old man was thinking. He was waiting for Bjorn to explode too. To show anger and Grief. Something that matched what had supposedly just happened to him.
But Bjorn didn't. He just stood there calmly.
"The Lord teaches," Bjorn continued softly, picking up exactly where he'd been interrupted, "that the meek shall inherit the earth. That even in suffering, there is purpose. I survived, though my brothers did not. So that I might bear witness. So that I might serve in whatever small way I can."
The Archbishop's eyes sharpened. He leaned forward slightly, studying Bjorn's face like he was trying to read something written there in invisible ink.
"You know your Psalms well for one so young," he said slowly.
Bjorn inclined his head. "I remember them from memory, Your Eminence. I strive to understand their meaning. The Lord's words guide us, even when men's hearts are cruel."
The Archbishop went quiet again. Something shifted in his expression. He looked... ashamed, almost. Like he'd just been shown up by someone less than half his age and it stung.
Here was this young man, barely more than a boy, standing calm and controlled after losing everything. And here was the Archbishop, an old man who was supposed to be a pillar of the church, losing his temper like a child.
He felt it then. A subtle stab of humility. This youth had shown composure he himself struggled to maintain.
The Archbishop cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was Softer.
"They are indeed cruel, Brother Chadus. You are right." He nodded slowly. "This is nothing but a test for us from the Lord himself. A trial of faith."
He stared at Bjorn for another long moment. His interest had sharpened into something more.
This young man, if he showed this much composure at such a young age, might become important to the church in the future. Worth keeping an eye on. Worth testing further.
The Archbishop stood again, this time slowly. He walked to a shelf behind his table and picked up a small book. Leather-bound. He flipped through the pages, found what he was looking for, and brought it back to the table.
He held it out to Bjorn, open to a specific page.
"Read this," he said.
Bjorn took the book carefully. It was a Psalter. The text was in Latin. The passage was short—maybe six lines.
This was a test. Bjorn knew that immediately. The Archbishop wanted to see if he could actually read Latin, and if so, how well. And he wanted to see if Bjorn showed proper reverence while doing it.
Bjorn had prepared for this. He'd spent hours with Athelstan, practicing pronunciation, learning the rhythms, faking the tone of someone who actually believed every word.
He took a breath and began to read.
His Latin was careful. Not perfect—a country monk wouldn't have perfect Latin—but good enough. He pronounced each word clearly, letting his voice carry the reverence expected from someone reading holy text.
The Archbishop listened. His eyes never left Bjorn's face.
When Bjorn finished, he closed the book gently and held it out. The Archbishop took it back slowly.
The old man was thinking. Bjorn could see it in his eyes. The gears turning.
Too refined for a fisherman's son. Too educated for some village chapel. Where did this boy really come from?
But the Archbishop looked satisfied. Whatever test he'd been running, Bjorn had passed.
Then the old man's expression shifted again. He wanted to test something else now. The things that mattered more than Latin in the end.
He raised one hand, cutting Bjorn off before he could say anything.
"You don't have a home right now, do you?" the Archbishop asked.
Bjorn shook his head once. "No, Your Eminence."
"Well then." The Archbishop's tone softened slightly. Not warm, exactly, but less sharp. "We can't just leave a brother in need, can we?"
A faint smile crossed his face. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You may stay with the brothers here. Sleep in the dormitory. Eat in the refectory." He paused. "But you'll have different duties than the others. You'll help in the granary. Clean the walkways. Mend broken tools. I trust a young man like you knows how to keep his hands busy."
He watched Bjorn's face closely. He'd seen others frown or hesitate when told to do such work. The archbishop believed that the measure of a man's humility showed best when he was asked to serve in silence.
Bjorn gave a small nod. "Yes, Father."
He expected to be tested on Latin, not labor. But this was easier. He had lifted worse in Kattegat and cleaned bloodier messes. And with his enhanced body right. It's a piece of cake.
A clerk led him to the yard where sacks of grain were stacked by the wall. Bjorn worked steadily through the day. He didn't rush or slow down. When he rested, he did it naturally, as any man would, to keep from drawing more attention. He spoke little, only answering when spoken to.
By sunset, the clerk returned to the archbishop's quarters and gave his report."The boy worked the whole afternoon. Never idle. Ate little, and thanked the kitchen for what he got."
The archbishop nodded but said nothing for a while. The boy's quiet discipline unsettled him a little. He had expected fatigue or complaint, not composure.
That night, before the vesper bell, the archbishop sent for Bjorn again. He spoke more gently this time."You've had a hard road. It might ease your heart to make a confession. Speak to Father Oswin before you rest. He is a kind man."
Bjorn accepted without question.
The confession was private and short. He spoke simply, naming no great sins, but admitting fear over the raid. The old priest found nothing false in his tone and told the archbishop later.
When the archbishop heard this, he felt more certain that the boy was something special, though he still couldn't decide what to make of him. So he added one last test.
He quoted quietly from the Psalms: "He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty."
He paused, letting the words settle."Think on that verse before morning prayer tomorrow. The King and his court will attend. I'll have you stand with the brothers."
Bjorn bowed slightly. "Yes, Your eminence."
The archbishop watched him leave. He had tested his body, his honesty, and his faith. And Sunday tomorrow, he would see how the boy carried himself among rulers of men.