Where I Arise: A Vikings Fanfic
Athelstan knows better than most: it is one matter to take prisoners, but another matter to be one. Confined to the local monastery after King Ecbert's intervention at his crucifixion, our favorite former monk is given time to reflect on what home means, what friendship is and does, and where his heart truly lies. (Extra-canonical to Season Two; featuring Athelstan, various monastic types, Ecbert and the whole West Saxon court.)
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ after me,
Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ at my right hand, Christ at my left hand,
Christ in my breadth, Christ in my length, Christ in my height,
Christ where I lie, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise,
Christ in the heart of every one who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.
Salvation is of the Lord.
Salvation is of the Lord,
Salvation is of the Christ.
May your salvation Lord, be ever with us.
- from The Lorica (Breastplate) of Saint Patrick, c.433.
Chapter One: Veni, Vidi
It would have been easier to bury the dead.
In this land, the ground was not nearly so hard as it was at home. But Ragnar wouldn't hear of it, and so several of the raiding party had spent a good bit of time in the wake of the battle with the Saxons chopping wood for fires.
These men died well. They deserve respect in death, Ragnar had told him when he asked. And respect, in this instance, meant work, the living paying back the debt they owed the dead.
However it might seem otherwise, Athelstan was glad of the work. Work sustained, pain comforted, sweat made him endure. He knew that if he stopped working the terrible reality of this morning would overwhelm him, and that he could not allow. So he felled and chopped and trimmed with the rest of them, dragging the logs that would become the pyres of the day's dead down to the shore.
It was hard work, and it left little time for thinking, save, perhaps, of dinner or the next horn-cup of ale. Still, there were words rattling around inside Athelstan's head like a handful of the soothsayer's bone dice, words he had not had cause to hear, use and remember for what seemed like an eternity, and he profoundly wished that they would allow themselves to be thrown, and thus cease their rattling and show his fate.
Hwæt naman hasaþ þisne cynedom? Þis is Wesseaxe.
Wessex! On the far south of the island of England! It beggared belief - for Athelstan, anyway - that they could be so far away from their intended destination. (It amazed him also that, even as Ragnar was lost in the wild seas of the world and unsure how to return home, he still smiled, laughed and praised his gods for his good fortune.) It should have made him happy, that his first raid should not be among the Northumbrians. Yet still his soul was unquiet. His people were far to the north-east, where now they would not be bothered by Ragnar's war-band, and everyone knew that the Northumbrians and the West-Saxons might as well have been two different breeds of men entirely. At least, that was what Athelstan had been taught before the Vikings took him away, and he learned that there are far greater divides in the world of men.
Still, it bothered him a little. Is loyalty due first to your master, or to your kin? Or to your Gods? It was a question often debated at the fireside. Saxon or not, he had killed them today, without question and without hesitation, in the service of his lord.
His lord. The word sounded so strange. He fumbled with the arm-ring at his wrist, turning over what it meant in his mind. He had been a slave, a thrall, subject to the whim of his master and the derision of the world, then a freeman, adrift without land of his own or the respect of others, and now he was a thegn, sworn in service to Ragnar, given an arm-ring as a token of his service, and his lord's trust. How quickly the world changes! Once he had worn other badges of service. But no longer.
It was Gyda, all those years ago, who had first noticed that Athelstan no longer said his prayers at dinner. As the rest of the table began to eat, she continued to study him, as had been her wont for so many months, watching as he silently went to work on loading his plate with the rest of the table. He had been so predictable, his prayer so much a part of mealtimes. It had been comforting, in a foreign kind of way. It hurt her a little not to listen to him any longer, and a little of that showed in her eyes. He looked up at her and she quickly turned her face away. He had seen her watching, but her eyes had been too quick to mark the shame in his own.
Oh, precious Gyda. He had felt his faith leaving him before her death, but after it his God had seemed even more remote.
No, it had not been a sudden change, the shift in Athelstan's faith. He had been a boat, tied up at the only dock on the only shore he had ever known, and slowly the boat had drifted away until, looking back, he could no longer see the shore or the dock from whence he had come. He saw a new shore now – but he did not go forward towards it, either. For all the intervening years, he had remained at sea. Not content, perhaps, but resigned.
Athelstan had thought to burn his book and his cross, the last little threads connecting him to home. He'd gone into the woods with his flint and built a little fire there, all by himself, too ashamed to try and do the thing at home, afraid that Ragnar or Bjorn would come and crow their victory over him. It wasn't a noble thing - it was a cowardly one.
But try as he might, he had not been able to bring himself to throw it into the flames. The gospel writers had seemed to stare at him, even though the book was closed, their colorless eyes asking, as solemnly as judges, Why have you forsaken us? Why do you abandon our Lord?
You knew him, he had wanted to say. I didn't. His death meant something to you, but it no longer speaks to me.
In the end, he had buried the book and cross, wrapping them in a piece of oiled cloth, with the ashes of the fire to mark the place. How like a little grave it had looked, the little mound of freshly dug earth on the forest floor. Here lies my former life. Much good it has done me.
The book had haunted him another week, and then Ragnar and the rest of his thegns had taken to the sea again, and Athelstan's thoughts turned to the farm in summer, the pasturing of the cattle in the mountains and the sowing and weeding of the barley, rye, and flax, the drying of the daily catch of fish and whatever fruit the slavewomen of the house found on their collecting trips. By the time the summer days were long and the nights filled with stories around the fireside, the book had left Athelstan's mind, and that had been an end to it. The boat was still at sea.
In truth, he had not thought, in those first years with Ragnar, that he would ever leave Kattegat, except in his shroud, much less see England again. He had put that part of his life behind him, buried it just as he had buried his book and his cross and his daily prayers. His faith was now a thing of shreds and patches. Like a garment past its usefulness, his time in Northumbria, his writing and his books - all seemed unhelpful at keeping out the cold of life. Yet here he was, returning.
And still my soul is unquiet.
"Athelstan." The Saxon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Torstein,, smiling broadly at some unknown joke.
"Did the tree say something to offend you?" the older warrior asked merrily. Athelstan looked down and realized that far from stripping the branches from the trunk he'd felled, his axe had instead gouged a series of deep troughs in the trunk, as if, as Torstein said, this was the body of an enemy he was intent on desecrating.
"My mind got away from me," Athelstan said with a shrug.
"Good in battle, but less good for felling trees," the other man observed with a sage smile. "I've seen men loose fingers when Odin's Ravens came upon them while they were chopping wood. The dead have had enough work from us for one day - there's food for us back in camp."
Odin's Ravens - Thought and Memory. Athelstan's mind made the leap without thinking. A poet's trick, long-since learned at the fireside. The wings of the raven or the beating of wings could mean divine inspiration, or heavy thought, depending on the context. Then, also, there was the belief that Odin's ravens came back to their master to tell him of the slain. To speak of Odin's Ravens in a battle was to foresee death for the man around whom they flocked.
Will there be more talk of Odin's Ravens tonight? Athelstan wondered. They had not brought a skald, a poet, with them on this trip, at least not one of the formally trained masters of the spoken word that delighted listeners back in Kattegat. There were some among them who liked to turn a phrase every now and then, or sing the old songs everyone knew, but that was not the same as being in the presence of a master. As a sign of his ability and wealth as a generous host Ragnar had often hosted skalds in Kattegat, knowing that an earl with an open purse is better spoken of than a king with a closed one. And it was working - there were already many poets sang about him - today, perhaps, they would add another battle to his long list of victories.
Or would they? Ragnar wouldn't want this victory spoken of - not a battle in which his slave had saved his life. That was not as honorable as a ready death, or a thrilling, nearly mortal wound. That would have made a better story. But if the poet were writing about Athelstan...No, impossible to think on. Loyalty like that was rewarded on rune-stones, not in songs. Athelstan died here; he was a good servant. When the weapon-weather came, he took a spear for Ragnar. And that would be his legacy. A forgotten stone on a forgotten shore.
Enough! Athelstan reminded himself sternly. Begone, ravens. I want no more of you.
He cleaned his axe blade on a tussock and returned it to his belt, following Torstein back to camp.
There was a rich repast ready for the men of the war band in camp - a whole pig stood spitted over the fire, slowly finishing the roast someone had begun this afternoon after they'd returned. It wasn't usual, this kind of gluttonous abandon with the food supplies. But the town, it appeared, had been most generous with their provisions. They could spare a little for a feast. Wheels of cheese and barrels of ale, long haunches of venison and other game, piled like a giant's treasure underneath one of the tents. To the men of Kattegat, men who knew what the poets meant when they called winter the long hunger, it was like a pile of gold.
Not that they were lacking in gold, either. When they had raided the Minister, Athelstan had gone with Ragnar to the Priory and the Cathedral. The spoils of that trip lay beside Ragnar, gleaming in the firelight, crosses and vestments picked out in gold thread and now- empty reliquaries whose holy bits and bones had been rudely shaken from their insides as trash. But the raiders of the town had brought back a third kind of treasure, now stationed at the edge of the circle of warriors waiting to hear Ragnar speak - the remnants of the frightened, shivering inhabitants of the Minister.
Athelstan knew Ragnar was not best pleased with this booty. Food they could eat, gold they could sell, but slaves? Vital to life in Kattegat and the north, of that there was no doubt. Without them, cows could not be milked, wheat could not be ground, turf could not be broken. But slaves were expensive chattel, especially so far from home. Slaves had to be watched, guarded, fed, and then packed onto the ships for the journey home, often with some wastage along the way. After constant companionship for the last six years, Athelstan knew his master's moods well enough to know that Ragnar wished that his other warriors had not been quite so judicious with the people of Winchester that had been spared the sword.
In truth, though, it was not hard to see that the needs of farming alone was not what had inspired the warriors to take prisoners as they did. A large majority of the new-caught slaves were women. And some among these women were nuns.
It was the habit of all Saxon women to wear thier hair covered, and many among the group now lacked their veils, ripped from their heads by suspicious raiders wondering what might lie beneath. No, the difference was their hair. Stripped of their headcoverings, the short, cropped hair of the nuns seemed all the more foreign as they sat among their worldly sisters, one renunciation among many of the vanities of the world. With their long dark robes and scapulars of rough wool, they were almost no different from the monks of his house, though they lacked the tonsure that would have marked them out among the men of the world.
And they were terrified, down to a woman. Several of the younger, more comely faces among the women of both town and minister had bruised faces and torn robes, as if they had resisted the advances of their captors and paid for it with whatever beauty they sought not to own to. Hands bound, some of them tried to hide their faces from the prowling faces beyond their wooden stockade without much success. And how some of them trembled to have the eyes of the waiting crowd upon them.
It was not unheard of in Lindisfarne to have children sent as fosterlings and grow up knowing no world but the monastery. For a man, perhaps, that was different, for they often had commerce with the outside world. But Athelstan knew that some women of god had only their sisters for silent company, never knowing what men were like, apart from the priest who came to say their masses and the grim stories of the old nuns, who filled them with visions of demons and hellfire.
If that had been his experience of the men of this world, coupled with the terror of seeing those same men pillage his safe little world and brutally rape his friends, he might well be terrified, too.
No, he took that back – he had been terrified.
Had been terrified - but no longer. He had looked Death in the face today and he had not wimpered.
He had often wondered, sitting in Ragnar's hall, how the poets could speak of the joy of battle, the satisfaction of the crunch of bone and the splash of blood and the last breath leaving the body. In the heat of battle, true, nothing had seemed as the poets said it would - all was a violent blaze of cuts and parries, with no sound in his head but his heartbeat, and the rage of the gods. And when the battle cleared, and the men of Wessex lay dead about them - then his words, his thoughts returned, and he thought he understood a little of what the poets meant by battle-joy. It had never seemed glorious before. But before I was the defeated, and the slain, Athelstan realized. And today I am among the victorious.
It had given him uncountable joy to sit with Thorstein and Ragnar and clean his weapons after the day's work, and pass around the whetstone to sharpen them. Even as he chopped trees for the funeral pyres his muscles had ached and sang, still remembering the buffets and blows of shield and spear and axe. After so long, he finally had some sense of belonging, of being inside rather than out. He had not really known he needed such comfort, but after it had passed, he realized how empty and how lonely he had truly been without it.
Suddenly, looking at the slaves in their little pen, he was inexpressibly angry. How dare they come here, with their piety and their helpless eyes and their women's fragile ways and remind him of the pitiful thing he too had been. He was ashamed to be counted in among them and their like. A good for nothing chanter of psalms and lifeless words, that was all he had been. Here he was a trusted man, with responsibility and as much respect as a slave could earn! He had been granted his freedom, given a place among his master's warriors! And here they were to remind everyone of how hopeless and incompetent he had been, once upon a time.
Athelstan turned his back on the slave-pen and focused instead on Ragnar, rising from his seat near the fire.
Drinking horn raised, Ragnar waited until the rest of the company quieted so he could speak. "Friends! Today has been a glorious day! We have taken much treasure, and sent many souls to the God of the Christians!" General cheering. "Tonight, we know, many women will be praying to their God because ours were mightier, and prevailed over them!" Louder cheers, and even a few shouted thanks to Thor and Odin. "And thanks to them, we shall eat exceptionally well tonight!" He gestured with an open hand to the barrels of ale and the pig, roasting invitingly over the spit with the flames dancing merrily around it.
"We have today lost friends, who died gloriously in pursuit of fame and fortune. The gods say it is right for us to mark their passing, so that in the halls of the slain they will know of their good deaths." Ragnar raised his drinking horn higher, "Hail, the victorious dead!"
"Hail!" The men assembled shouted it as one sound, one voice, and Athelstan's heart shook with pride as he, too, drained his horn.
"Yet today has not been without gain. Today King Horik's son Erlender bloodied his sword, and shown his worth. He shall be a good son to follow after his father!" The men called loudly for the king's son and his newly won honor, and the teenager ducked under his father's well-meaning clout on the back. "Jothur's son Jarmar, and Kolbien's daughter Valgerd have also taken first blood today. They are worthy members of this company!" More shouts, not as loud as for the king's son, but that was only right. Their fathers were well-liked. Ragnar held up his hand once more. "And you all know Athelstan, who came from these shores many years ago as a slave. He has also proved his worth in battle this day, and I have given him his freedom. He has taken his oath, and my arm-ring, and henceforward shall be one of my warriors!"
Hearty cheers all around, and horns raised in celebration, and many, many heavy hands patting Athelstan's shoulder in solidarity. Only Floki, across the fire, did not cheer, eyeing the young priest with distaste. No matter - Floki and Athelstan would never be the best of friends, no matter how much Ragnar wanted them to be.
Formalities finished, the men fell upon the glut of food before them with relish, drinking and laughing. Perhaps when everyone was sated there would be time for Mimir's mead-cup of poetry. Athelstan took the piece of the pig passed to him and bit in with relish, watching the others with satisfaction.
Torstein rose from his seat, picking his way among the other men to move close to his lord's side, careful not to spill any of the ale from his horn. "Should Athelstan not have some better reward for his first battle, Earl Ragnar? He was long counted among the women and the children, and today we count him among the men." He met his lord's eye with a mischievous spark.
Ragnar's lip curled, and his gaze slid sideways to Athelstan, studying the younger man with calculating eyes. "Wise words, friend Torstein. He is indeed a man - and should have a man's spoils."
The warm glow of the fire and the company fled. Not this again. It had been a long-standing jape, in Ragnar's house, that Athelstan seemed not to want the bed-company of women - or of men. Athelstan knew that his master delighted in sending him on errands that would put him in the way of women and sex- down to the stream to draw water when he knew the maids were bathing, or to fetch a warrior to Ragnar's council who had been away from home and had a pretty wife he missed. He had gone along with it with for years - what choice does a slave have?
In the beginning there had been much blushing, and turning away, but now he considered himself quite immune. There simply hadn't been any time for such things - and besides, a freeman with no farm of his own was hardly a catch for the local girls. There were quite a few slaves who would have slept with him, freely and gladly, even those who said so in no uncertain terms, but Athelstan didn't - well, it was hard to explain. Even after being away from the monastery and its disciplines for so long, the iron ring of celibacy seemed the hardest to let go.
The joke had been forgotten in recent months, but now, it seemed, Torstein was ready to bring it up again - and Ragnar was going to oblige him. The Earl rose from his seat, striding over to the wooden pen and studying the faces behind its bars. The eyes of the women followed his with frightened intensity, knowing what was in store for them and wishing all the while that his eye would fall to someone else. He reached through the bars to touch a cheek, or wipe a tear, laughing as they pulled back in fear, tripping over each other to escape his touch.
"Priest, come here."
Athelstan rose and tried to tie down his distaste. He had learned many things throughout his years with Ragnar, but the one lesson chief among all of them was this: the life of a slave is not his own. He owned no property, held no honor. He could not speak at the Althing, nor give testimony against another man. Nothing of himself was his - not even his feelings. And that lesson, at least, would serve him well now. "That one," the Earl said, pointing a finger at a housewife of perhaps forty, "Too old. Her own husband wouldn't ride her now unless he was a desperate man. That one - " a girl of twelve, with eyes that were red and puffy from weeping, "Too young. You'd split her in two, and what good would she be to you then?"
Athelstan tried to follow all of this with a knowledgeable, level gaze, as if he and his lord were discussing the breeding of pigs or goats at a market stall.
"But here, now - here is a woman." Ragnar's finger picked out a woman who looked to be nearer Athelstan's age. She stood with the nuns, but her back was a little straighter, her gaze a little more direct than the rest. And her hair, unlike the others, was still long, albeit braided back in the manner of a married woman. If she was frightened (If! Fool, they were all frightened.) than she was doing a better job of the others at holding it in. Oh, woman, will you not show your fear? the monk chided silently. You think it will help you, and it won't, this bravery of yours. But Ragnar likes a bold woman better than any other. Athelstan knew his lord's moods too well - the Earl was decided. "What about this one, priest?" Ragnar asked, pointing to the fresh-faced nun.
"My lord is most generous."
The Earl's smile crackled with mischief, and he gestured for the guard to open up the pen and fetch his chosen one out for him, just as he might choose stock at the market.
Once the door was opened, all solidarity broke - the women with whom she had been standing drew back, afraid the same contagion of a captor's desire might touch them too. But she did not go quietly, as Athelstan had predicted. The woman fought, throwing her shoulders left and right to try and dislodge the heavy hand of the guard, but to no avail. Standing before Ragnar, her arms pinned to her sides, she looked him square in the eye and spat at his feet. Ragnar laughed.
"She has a bit of temper in her," he said amiably, as though this were a desirable trait. "You'd have fine children out of such a woman, Athelstan, if you wished."
"Surely she might please you more, my lord," Athelstan offered, trying to see if he might still be exempted from this mockery.
"It pleases me to see my warriors well-looked after," Ragnar shot back with his trickster's smile, gesturing for the guard to release her to Athelstan's arms. That itself was not easy - for a moment, they grappled, but even after a day of heavy sword fighting she was no match for him. Long hours training with the men of the war band meant that even he had a good grip and a strong arm. Behind him, he knew Ragnar was still smiling. "Go plow your field. And - take my tent to do it," the Earl offered generously, a small concession to his newest thegn's easy embarassment. "I won't be back for a good while yet myself. Perhaps," he added, his blue eyes still sparkling with merriment, "I'll take a turn myself then."
"'Will you need help sharpening your sword, Athelstan? She doesn't look like she'll do it for you," One of the others joked by the fireside.
'It's plenty sharp already, Grein," the Saxon shot back. He'd heard enough randy jokes among the men of Kattegat to fight his own battles there. "And its reach is plenty longer than yours, too," He added with a smile as the campfire roared with laughter. Satisfied that he'd made a decent show of it, he tightened his grip on the woman's arms and marched back to Ragnar's tent, shoving the woman unceremoniously inside and letting the tent flap drop in behind them.
The inside of the tent was dark, save for a little of the moonlight coming in at the edges of the tent-walls. The woman was slumped near Ragnar's bedroll and furs, her eyes dark and determined, her jaw clenched. Athelstan though almost immediately of a snake, waiting to strike.
Athelstan, riding on the crest of the bravado brought on by the joking of the others, tried to remember the battle-joy of this morning and send it coursing through his blood, but it was no use. This isn't you, Athelstan, a part of him warned self-righteously. It is not you now, and it never will be.
Athelstan felt the rest of his put-upon bluster leave him, his shoulders slumping and the extra inch of steel in his spine retreating back. He looked again at the woman, still quivering, and then glanced over his shoulder at the tent flaps. They were expecting - well, he wasn't sure what, but he was sure that it wasn't going to happen. At least, not tonight. He turned back to the woman and took a step towards her, his hands open to assure her, hopefully, that he meant no harm.
"Ne mec ondrǣd. Ic ne þu derda."
She gaped, but did not move. Well, he should have been expecting that. Hadn't Ragnar assured him that he wouldn't hurt him, either? Then, as now, it had been true, but not, perhaps, very reassuring.
He decided to try something else. "Hwat is þinne namie?"
That question, at least, was safe. If he cared about her name, perhaps she could rest assured he would not try to tear her dress in two.
"Godeleve."
"Godeleve. Hit beo gōd namen." It's a good name. He tried to smile reassuringly, but the reassurance did not come. "Min nama is Athelstan. Ic besargie, Godeleve, fore earfoþe se todæg." I am sorry for today's trouble.
She regarded him with deep suspicion, trying to riddle out what sort of demon fought with a Viking war band and spoke the language of her fathers as his own. "þu spricst wel Englisc," she said finally. You speak English well. It was an accusation and an observation, a phrase hiding another, more important question. What kind of strange creature are you?
"Ic wæs geara Angelcynn. Fram Norþhymbraland."
Her eyes went wide.
"Then you are not - not one of them?"
What a question that is, Athelstan mused. Am I really one of them? What does that mean? "Not really," he decided. "And I won't hurt you."
"Won't you?" she challenged, hackles still up, ready to strike at him with any sudden change.
"No," Athelstan reassured her, finally decided. "No, I won't."
"Won't your … friends wonder?" She spat the word, heorðgeneat, with deep suspicion, not using the closer word gehola, a friend of a closer kind, or, better still, frēond, the word that meant a lover or one in close affection with speaker.
"I'll tell them what they want to hear. A lie is an easy price to pay. We need only wait a while, and...rearrange...things." Athelstan's voice dropped out, trying to fill in what he really meant. Rearrange the bedroll, her hair, her dress, his tunic, his leggings. Oh, why should his stupid chagrin at matters of the flesh come back now, of all times, when he was trying to play the worldly warrior?
A raucous burst of laughter rent the air outside the tent, and suddenly Athelstan heard, as clear as though the man were right beside him, "Should we see how Athelstan fares?"
"A silver penny says he can't find the right field!" One of the others shouted merrily.
She may not have understood the words outside, but she could follow his face easily enough. The Saxon's eyes followed Athelstan's to the tent flap, his gaze turned towards the voices outside.
Before he could even think she had shoved her skirt up around her hips and dragged his body close, letting loose a series, in rhythmic succession, of the little pained animal noises that Athelstan knew all too well from five years of living in close quarters with a man and a woman who were very physical in their affections. Her arms lay pinned between them from when she'd pulled him down to her, her hand on his belt rocking him forward and back against her hips until he realized what she was doing.
When Ragnar pulled the tent-flap back, he saw and heard what he was meant to - a woman's legs spread wide and white, a man's hips thrusting into what sounded like an unwilling victim, arms held close so she could not defend herself. Athelstan's eyes were open, wondering if this madcap pantomime would work, but hers were shut in imagined (was it imagined? It seemed real enough on her face) anguish. Athelstan paused as if he were in mid-stroke, and turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder, but not before Ragnar had dropped the tent-flap back. They heard him chuckle outside, then laugh heartily, returning to the company of the fireside.
"Looks like a deep enough furrow!" they heard him say to the others, dwelling in their laughter. "And a good plowman - she doesn't even fight him!"
Athelstan listened to him leave, breath caught in his throat, and then dropped his body away from hers, sighing deeply, his heart pounding. Godeleve sat up a little, pulling her skirt modestly back down while Athelstan averted his eyes. He was ashamed to say that in the rush of playacting he found himself playing his part a little too well, something he was sure she'd noticed. How could she not, with her nakedness...The former monk shook his head a little to clear it. No, he would not think on it. It was not right that he should take advantage so.
There had been so little time to think. Suppose Ragnar had wanted to join them? Athelstan knew such things were possible, had even heard it spoken well of by his master. He remembered all too well that night, all those nights ago, when Ragnar and Lagertha had come before him, naked and wanton, eyes gleaming in the dark like the devils of so many sermons, asking him to join them.
And he had been tempted. God, had he been tempted.
He had not had words for it then, but he had admired them. Not purely in the admiration of the flesh, though that had been a great deal of it. No, he admired that they should be so - so free. I was taught that the body was a source of fear, and should not be rejoiced in. I was told that all the things my body did were the urges of the devil, and should be purged out, so that all that would remain was saintly and clean. I was taught that nakedness was for the dark, so the mirrors of the eyes of others would not encourage us to vanity.
Athelstan the monk would never have let another human, man or woman, see his naked skin by rushlight, nor stripped down to bathe in the river , nor even removed his shirt when the work grew hot after a day's harvesting. But I have done all these things, Athelstan thought to himself, a hundred times or more, and they trouble me no longer.
He had seen the nakedness of others, and they had seen his, too, and it was no longer an embarrassment as it had once been. But with this woman, one of his people who thought as he had once thought, the shame came back as strong as it had ever been.
Ragnar had gone, but he would be back - or he would be expecting a triumphant Athelstan to return to the fire with his chastened prize. Athelstan had no tent of his own to keep her in, no house to return her to where she would be safe from the eyes and desires of others. He wasn't even sure if she had been given as the possession of an hour or a longer span. Though to her he might have had power, among the war-band Athelstan was the lowest, and he was wondering, now, how his hastily spoken words of a moment ago could be true. What protection could he give her? How could he keep his word, and keep her safe?
Safety was not here. Safe was -
Athelstan looked at the tent flap, and cautiously peeked his head out. The rest of the camp was practically deserted, everyone busy at the main fire with Ragnar and the treasure. He ducked back inside and held out his hand to help her up. She looked at him again with deep suspicion, but did as he bid, pointedly ignoring his hand to rise from the tent floor without his help.
Athelstan pulled back the tent flap, and glanced back at the fire, hoping no one would look back at the tent for news of his success. Confident all eyes were turned the other way, he crept out, pulling Godeleve with him.
"Follow me, and do exactly as I say," he ordered quietly.
The enthusiastic singing of an old-battle song followed them to the edge of the camp, the wood beyond dim and forbodeing. Athelstan looked back again, and then searched the darkness for the sentry. None appeared.
" Along the river is an easier path, with less bracken underfoot," he said, still glancing about in case the night's appointed watchman came by this way. "Go back to your king, if you can find him." She did not seem to believe what she was hearing. "I promised what I could not give. I can offer you no safety here," he confessed. "They will be waiting for us, and I do not know what happens after that."
"And my sisters?" Godeleve asked, her own eyes glancing back in the direction of the fire.
"I can do nothing. I am not a man of power here."
"Or of favor?" Are you not a man to whom your lord gives slaves and gifts? she accused silently.
"That was my master's idea of a joke," Athelstan said, more than a little annoyed. "He will not be so swayed twice. I have his trust, but little else. Now please, go!"
She lingered for the barest of moments, weighing the staying and the going against each other, before finally pelting off into the night across the open field, her steps light on the grass and then a little louder once she was in the shelter of the thicket, her dark robe a good cover against the eaves of the woods. Abranch broke. Oh, please stop for a moment, else they'll hear you and give chase.
"What was that?" he heard a sentry ask, some distance away. Athelstan turned, watching the edge of the camp to see if anyone would emerge. The wood gave forth no sounds. Athelstan's pulse was pounding like a war-drum at his ears. "Probably some animal - a deer or such," his companion complained. "Leave it till morning."
The Saxon sighed. Of the woman there was now no sign. Athelstan studied the line of the trees and wondered, just for a moment, if he had made some mistake in letting her go. Never mind that - she's gone now, and that's an end to it. It's better for everyone this way.
Well, perhaps not for me. They would think him a weak fool, but that was hardly new.
He snuck back into Ragnar's tent, looking around for a likely culprit until his hands seized upon a spare stone, half-buried in the turf underneath the tent. If ever I needed a god's help, now would be the time, Athelstan thought to himself. Was there a prayer to summon Loki the Liar? Did one ask the god of mischief for help? Or was he one of those capricious deities whose help or hindrance always came unasked for? Whatever it is, I need it now, the priest said, raising the rock and, closing his eyes, bringing the stone smashing against the side of his forehead.
His vision spun, and the rock dropped to the ground, followed quickly by the rest of his body. Perhaps I should have taken the knife, Athelstan mused, feeling the edge of his hair go gummy with blood as his gaze tumbled in and out of focus. But then they would have asked why I didn't cry out.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he gathered himself a minute and then surged out of the tent, stumbling like a drunkard.
"Bitch!"
The men at the fire turned, wondering what had brought the noise until Athelstan stumbled back into view, head streaming.
"She hit me with a stone, and -" There was blood on his face, running down his cheek and into his eyes and in a minute they were all on their feet, every man full of righteous fury. "Search the camp!" "Find her!"
Yet one of the men stayed back, rising slowly as the rest rushed away. "What a priceless thegn, to let his lord's gifts pass out of his hands so easily," Floki said disdainfully, his gaze dark and malevolent.
"It's not Athelstan's fault," Ragnar said quickly. The noise that Floki made in response made it quite clear what the shipbuilder thought of that.
Athelstan turned himself unsteadily onto one of the benches by the fire, feeling a little sick. "Perhaps you should have let me have the older one," he confided to Ragnar as Torstein went to look for one of the herb-wives to bind up the cut.
Ragnar considered this a moment, his grin unchanging. "I wanted them to see you received what I thought was worthy. A slave gets another man's leavings. A thegn gets what is owed him." He considered all this a moment more. "Still, it is probably better she is gone. She would not have been at rest in Kattegat. She would have been trouble." He looked at his former slave and smiled broadly. "So you have done me a good service twice today, priest!"
"I ask not to be rewarded for this one, my lord," Athelstan said sincerely, making Ragnar laugh again.
The next day it rained, sheets and sheets of unceasing, cold, bone-chilling rain. The others sang, and drank, and availed themselves of the other women they had captured. A month, a week, even a day ago Athelstan would have watched it all with indifference, but not today. Today his mind was far away, wondering where the woman Godeleve had gone, and if she really had made it home.
One good deed matters little against a host of bad ones, his mind echoed bitterly back. They will never take you back, Athelstan. They will never stop hating you. And you will never have a safe place among these pagans, either. It were better if you had never spoken to Ragnar, if you had drowned, if you had taken a spear in your side, than to continue as you now are. For when you die, all punishments of God's angels will come down upon, and you will have no peace, even in death. The dice were rattling in his head again, this time carrying with them words of the bishop that Ragnar and the others had killed for sport in the Priory church.
We will catch you and crucify you - for an apostate is the lowest and the vilest of all creatures in the eyes of God!
Was he truly low and vile? He conducted himself as a good man among the Northmen - he obeyed his lord, went about his work without complaint, gave thanks for his blessings, moderated his behavior towards those lower than him and gave respect towards those above him - Christian virtues, all. He had even tried to save the bishop, though his words and warnings had come too late. Did that count for nothing, either?
You let your brothers die. You told the Northmen where the treasures of God could be found so more could be slain. You killed innocent men, and allowed the rape of innocent women. Who would count you among the virtuous, Athelstan the Faithless?
Was there not a place for the virtous pagans even in hell?
There is a way you could know, the bitter little part of his mind mocked. Athelstan looked around at the singing war-band and glanced out into the rain at Ragnar's tent. Inside, he knew, were more of the treasures of the church, and among them, meant for the fire, was a copy of the Gospels.
And suddenly Athelstan had a strong desire to read them.
Among all the tales told by Ragnar and his people there were stories good for laughing, or for feeling brave, or for a good lesson on the trickery of men and magic. But none of those things would help him now. In the monastery, all that time ago, he had loved the Gospels. The Psalms were good for poetry, and the writers of Genesis and Deuteronomy good for great epics, but for comfort, for hope, for reassurance, none could match the Gospel-writers.
And Athelstan needed all of those things, more than anything else in the world, as he had not needed them in a long, long time.
He had never unburied his own copy of Saint John's Gospels from its grave in the woods - he did not think that even now he could remember where it was. Long gone to worms, probably. But then, he had not needed them before as he did now.
Tripping over his feet a little (the ale was strong in this part of England, truly!) he slipped inside Ragnar's tent, sitting down heavily next to his own bedroll, and rummaging for a moment in the pile of spoils next to his lord's possessions. He didn't even think Ragnar knew it was there, and he wanted to keep it that way. But now, just now, he wanted to read it, feel its pages, find some small bit of reassurance that he was not totally lost in the world.
He let the book fall open on his lap and read the passage there. Matthew. A good source for parables, he remembered, the little lessons of the Lord. On the facing page there was an image, of Jesus, seated on the Throne of Heaven, his hand raised in benediction as before him milled a great crowd of people, kneeling down in supplication.
When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.
Like a thunderbolt, the story came back to him, washing over him like a great wave and sounding in his head with all the deep tone and gravitas of the war-horn and the battle-drum. "And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.' Then he will say to those at his left hand, 'Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels... And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.'"
Suddenly, it seemed to him that the illumination of the Gospel page was alive with movement, the arms of the king gesturing to the left and the right, the little hordes of people moving before him as he pronounced his judgements upon them, wailing in agony as their deeds were laid before them. Then, just as suddenly, the eyes of the picture turned on Athelstan, and the image held its arms out, as if pleading with him, Why have you abandoned me? Then the page began to well up with blood, great gouts of liquid pouring from the hands and the side of the Son of God, and Athelstan cast the book out of his hands, trying to wash away the blood.
The image passed - the book lay on the ground, undamaged and unstained. Athelstan's hands, too, were clean. Outside, the rain continued, unhindered, on the roof of the tent.
What madness is this? Athelstan begged, tears biting at his eyes. God, can I not have some kind of peace?
Thunder rumbled overhead, and Athelstan, truly not knowing which God of his had answered, ducked back out into the pouring rain, as miserable as ever.
Hwæt!
I wish I could have started the chapter the same way the author of Beowulf begins his text, with the invocation to listen, but it didn't fit the tone. So we'll save it for the author's notes.
A friend of mine asked me recently if I'd watched Vikings, since she'd recently finished the second season and she thought I'd enjoy it. I had watched the first season, loved it, and hadn't made time time to watch the second and third seasons. Anyway, in the midst of our discussions about the show, and the characters, she asked if I'd consider writing a fanfic for it. So I have.
Full disclaimers: I have not at any point in time taken a class on Old English grammar or early church theology. Any errors regarding those subjects are mine entirely. Due consideration has been given to Anglo-Saxon royal politics, the roles of women, monastic practice, Carolingian feudal policy, and a number of other issues, and I've tried to do them all justice.
I've had a hard time trying to figure out whether to share this story or not, since I'm not sure that it's up to my usual standard and I'm also not sure that anyone will want to read it. I love Vikings because it's a show about a very interesting group of people at a time of interesting cultural synthesis and shift, and I love Athelstan because he's a great way to talk about that shift, and because he's a great way to talk about so many things I love to read about - early monasticism, gender norms, mysticism and prayer. And he's an excuse to do more research. And I do love research.
So now there is a stack of twelve library books next to my writing desk and a lot of interesting 9th century texts to quote and an estimated fifty pages of story so far. I hope you enjoy it.