Uppsalir - Chapter 2
Title: Uppsalir
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Athelstan/Ragnar
Rating: R
Words: 66,794
A/N: Uppsalir was written for NaNoWriMo 2018. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
The journey from the cold beach to the monastery was long and arduous. Although it was only a half-mile in distance, it took more than an hour for the monks to carry their unwieldly load over the jagged rocks and slippery sand. Athelstan welcomed the half-dozen monks who ventured out from their hiding places to join Brother Matthew and himself in the rescue of Ragnar, the Northman.
Brother Matthew had the foresight to bring several rough sheets from the monastery laundry with him. With the monks’ help, they were able to roll Ragnar onto the sheets from where he lay on the beach. Ragnar had not regained consciousness again, unless Athelstan took his various grunts and groans into consideration.
Athelstan was pleased that so many monks had followed Matthew in his journey to the water. He suspected those who wanted nothing to do with the rescue of the Northman had remained at Lindisfarne, either cowering in their dormitory or planning how to rid themselves of the devil who belonged to the tribe of men who had attacked their brothers. May God forgive them for their thoughts of violence against this suffering man.
Athelstan couldn’t blame his brothers for being wary. The Northmen had attacked without warning and they spared almost no Englishman they encountered. In some ways, Athelstan considered himself lucky that he was spared the worst of their actions. He searched for a reason that God had allowed him to escape the raid with his life, only to fall into another challenging situation by discovering Ragnar on the beach.
This ordeal was surely the Lord’s way of challenging Athelstan to rise to the occasion and do God’s will. Perhaps it was God’s will that he delivered his word to this heathen. Why else would God have put Ragnar in his path?
God works in mysterious ways, Athelstan had often realized. He hoped that his connection with God would only strengthen if he could prevent the heathen from engaging in the crude warlike behaviour Athelstan had witnessed when his brothers were slain. He had brought the word of God to many places in his travels. Perhaps God wanted him to bring his word to the heathens, starting with this one injured Northman. He supposed he would have to wait and see if Ragnar survived another day to find out.
Athelstan stepped over the stones that led to the monastery gate, still hanging off its hinges from the raid. The scent of burnt wood filled his nostrils. Although he and several of the other monks did their best to keep the fires from spreading, there was damaged wood to be replaced and walls to repair. It would be a long summer of hard work if they were to get Lindisfarne back into good condition before winter came.
As the monks carried the Northman’s litter toward the monastery, Athelstan remembered the carnage of the raid all too well. Maybe this was God’s greatest test for him-the loss of his friends measured against the saving of this Northman’s soul. Athelstan knew he had to do his best to reconcile what God was asking of him with the wreckage that the Northmen had left behind.
“You can’t mean to treat him in our dormitory,” Brother Finian objected as soon as the monks entered the main hall of the monastery.
“Show some compassion. He’s injured and he may not survive the night,” Athelstan retorted.
Athelstan glanced around the small dormitory where the monk’s beds lined the walls. Usually two dozen monks could sleep comfortably in this room. A half-dozen monks had been killed. Another half-dozen had been captured and taken away on the sea. There was plenty of room in the dormitory. The bunks were sturdy, if uncomfortable. Athelstan had always been grateful to sleep on something besides the hard floor that he knew before he came to live at Lindisfarne. Still, Athelstan did not want to argue about where the Northman might stay.
“He needs to rest somewhere. He’s been lying on the beach, exposed to the elements since sometime yesterday,” Athelstan said.
“I don’t care if you bring him back to the beach to lay him to rest,” Finian said, wringing his hands. “He doesn’t belong here, Brother Athelstan.”
“Finian, that would be cruel beyond measure,” Athelstan said with a clenched jaw. “What you suggest would be no more helpful than the damage the raiding Northmen brought here yesterday.”
“Look,” Matthew said, pushing his way between Athelstan and Finian, “I know you’re angry because of the attack on our brothers, but this man is still alive. We need to do what the Lord would have us do with him. If we can heal him, so be it. I don’t care where he sleeps.”
“I agree with you, Matthew,” Athelstan said.
Athelstan wanted the arguing to end. All the monks had experienced the ghastly ordeal of the attack on the monastery. Now that the bodies had been buried, and supplies had been rationed, it was time to work together for the common good. There was still much work to be done to restore Lindisfarne to the condition it was in before the Northmen attacked. It was no use arguing about where an injured man would sleep.
“I know where we can take the Northman, where he will not be a bother to the monks who object,” Athelstan said. It seemed unconventional, and rather sacrilegious, but it was the only option at the time. Athelstan clasped the nearby shoulder of Daniel, one of the monks who had helped carry the litter back to the monastery and said, “Follow me.”
Daniel directed the monks to hoist the litter again and they followed Athelstan out of the dormitory.
Athelstan led the men down the torch-lit hall, past the scriptorium, to where the more private rooms of the monastery were built into the stone walls. He grabbed a torch from one of the braziers and carried it to the end of the hall. He pushed the door open. A crucifix greeted him from above the bed in the dim room. A tiny window on the far wall showed that the sun would soon be gone. Athelstan’s stomach rumbled with hunger. The day on the beach had passed slowly, but now with the fading daylight, the dinner hour had come and gone.
“But this is Father Cuthbert’s room,” Matthew said.
“This will be far enough away from Finian and the others who are wary about sharing their quarters with the Northman,” Athelstan said. “It’s for our own good that this man is not visible to the monks who survived the worst of the attack. There’s no need to upset them further by flaunting this man’s whereabouts in the faces.”
“You’re right Brother Athelstan,” Daniel said. “Our brother’s nerves are frayed enough because of the lives lost at this man’s hands.”
“I hope they remember,” Brother Lucian said. “Whatsoever you did for the least of my brothers, such you have done unto me.”
Athelstan was glad that at least Brother Lucian was sympathetic.
“Let’s bring him over to the bed,” Brother Benedict said. “He’s not getting any lighter.”
“Despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten in days,” Athelstan quipped. He supposed he should be grateful that he had the help from most of his brothers as they lifted the sheet carrying the Northman to the bed that once belonged to Father Cuthbert.
“You should stay with him, Athelstan,” Lucian said. “Matthew informed us that you can speak his language.”
“Yes,” Athelstan said, turning to Lucian. “It would be for the best.”
Still, Athelstan feared what might happen if he was left alone with Ragnar. He would not be able to defend himself against the might of a Northman, despite his injured state. If it was God’s will that Athelstan be killed, then he would do his best to accept it and hope that his death would serve as a lesson to others.
“I’ll go to the kitchen to find something for you to eat,” Matthew said, clasping Athelstan’s shoulder. “You must be as hungry as I am.”
“May God be with you, brother,” Benedict said, as he and the remaining monks left Athelstan by Ragnar’s bedside.
Athelstan closed the door behind them and went to the fireplace. He knelt before the hearth and searched inside for the warm peat. His fingers were stiff with cold. He could only imagine how Ragnar felt after lying on the beach for a night and most of a day.
Satisfied that the peat was warm enough to revive, Athelstan used the small broom to brush the ash from it. He blew on the peat until it smouldered, the smoke puffing minimally into the room before it rose up the chimney.
Athelstan wiped his hands on his habit and got to his feet. It would take a while for the room to warm, so Athelstan busied himself with tending to Ragnar’s cold and bloody body.
Inside Father Cuthbert’s blanket chest, Athelstan found a woven throw with fur edging. He held it in his outstretched arms before the fireplace. Someone had obviously taken great care to weave a pattern into the blanket. Athelstan suspected Father Cuthbert’s sister had given the blanket to him on one of her rare visits to the monastery.
Athelstan grimaced. He dreaded the day when the men came to resupply the monastery with goods. The monthly delivery of news to the monks went both ways. He regretted that he would have to inform the men of Father Cuthbert’s death. It saddened him to think of the grief it would cause to his family.
While Father Cuthbert had a family, it was rare for a cloistered monk to have a family member interested in learning about the monastery and news that came from within. Most of the monks had arrived there as boys, when a family had too many mouths to feed. In times of famine, donating a boy to the monastery could alleviate a family’s obligation to provide for their children. After the boys began their monastic studies, they rarely saw their families again.
Athelstan didn’t wonder what had become of his own family. Word travelled to the monastery when, months before Athelstan’s tenth birthday, he learned that his parents, brothers, and sister had succumbed to the plague. He barely remembered them.
When he was a child, Athelstan sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he had a living family of his own. He tried not to dwell on it. He reminded himself that the brothers at the monastery were his family now and Almighty God was the only father he needed. He considered himself lucky to have been marked out to serve a life of devotion to God. He embraced his duty with all his heart.
The peat smouldered and Athelstan caught himself dallying in front of its heat. Taking the blanket, he walked to Ragnar’s bedside. The man still slept, seemingly unaware that he had been brought indoors and into the very monastery that he and his kinsmen had decimated a day earlier.
Athelstan spread the blanket over Ragnar. He watched as the Northman’s chest rose and fell. Relieved that Ragnar was still alive, Athelstan wondered if the day would come when Ragnar could remember from where he came and why he had travelled to Lindisfarne with the Northmen.
When Ragnar awoke… if he woke… the monks would have to do something to mend his broken bones and tend to the wounds he had suffered in the attack. Until then, Athelstan could wait. He drew up a chair from Father Cuthbert’s desk and sat beside the bed.
Soon, a gentle knock came on the door and Athelstan rose from his seat to answer it.
“I’ve brought some stew to warm you,” Matthew said. He carried the bowls into the room and set them on the desk.
“Thank you, Brother Matthew. Have you eaten already?”
Matthew did not take his eyes off Ragnar’s reclining form.
Athelstan thought it must be strange for Matthew to see Ragnar in Father Cuthbert’s place.
“Yes, I already had my fill from the kitchen,” Matthew said. “Brother Hedrick was kind enough to keep the pot simmering while we transported the Northman from the beach.”
“Please give him my thanks,” Athelstan said. He made the sign of the cross and prayed. “Thank you, God in heaven, for the food that I am about to receive. Amen.”
“I don’t suppose he will be well enough to eat anything soon,” Matthew said, nodding toward the bed where Ragnar lay.
Athelstan dipped his spoon into the stew and brought it to his lips. “I don’t think so,” Athelstan said. “I’m afraid he hasn’t regained consciousness since we found him on the beach.”
Athelstan sipped the broth from his spoon. Earlier in the day, he had helped Brother Hedrick divide the remaining food stores into rations that would last until their supplies came. He was grateful that there was enough meat and vegetables to make a stew, although they had to take care not to run out. Studded with carrots and potatoes, the warm stew was the first thing Athelstan had eaten in many hours and it warmed him from the inside.
“Were you able to learn anything from him?” Matthew asked.
Athelstan put his spoon down. “He seems to have lost his memory. He cannot remember why he came here, and he does not remember anything about the raid. I doubt he even knows what it means to be without the light of the Lord, Jesus Christ.”
“Poor soul,” Matthew said. “What will we do with him if he recovers? Send him on his way, back to the sea from whence he came? Or will we keep him here until the king’s men can dispense justice for all the harm he and his men have done to the monastery and to our brethren?”
“I’m not sure,” Athelstan said, resuming his meal. He truly did not know whether each of Matthew’s ideas would come to fruition. Perhaps there was a third way, a better way that would see that justice was served and that Ragnar’s soul was saved. He prayed that God would show him the way.
“And you do not fear him?” Matthew asked.
“I do fear for him,” Athelstan said. “I fear for his soul.”
Athelstan finished his broth and gave the bowl back to Matthew.
“I’ve brought some water for you to wash with,” Matthew said, “I left a pot outside the door.”
Matthew brought the pot of warm water inside the room and set it on the grate in the hearth to heat more thoroughly.
“Thank you,” Athelstan said, clasping Matthew’s shoulder as he walked to the door.
“And, I know you’ll be opposed to it, but I’ve brought you this, as well,” Matthew said. He reached into his habit and pulled out a knife.
It was only a small knife, one they used in the kitchen for chopping herbs, but Athelstan was grateful for Matthew’s thoughts about protection. He glanced at Ragnar to ensure that he was still asleep.
“Thank you, Brother Matthew,” Athelstan said. “It shouldn’t be necessary, but I will keep it with me, along with your good thoughts.”
“Be safe,” Matthew said and bid Athelstan goodnight.
Athelstan closed the door behind Matthew. He considered carefully hiding the knife in his habit as Matthew had done, but he decided against it. Instead, he placed it out of Ragnar’s reach on the desk.
Athelstan went to the hearth and tested the water to make sure it had some heat before dipping a rag in. Removing his sandals from his feet, he poured some of the water into the basin that Father Cuthbert had kept for washing. There, Athelstan washed the day’s grime from his face and hands before sitting in the chair to tend to his feet.
He listened to Ragnar’s breathing that joined the chants of evensong wafting on the breeze through Father Cuthbert’s window. The tones of the prayer soothed Athelstan and brought him back into the light of God that seemed so easy to put aside after all that had transpired that day.
He placed the basin on the floor and sunk each foot into the warm water. Humming along to the evening prayers, Athelstan leaned over and dabbed at the dirt that accumulated between his toes. He liked feeling clean again, after spending so much time in the muck at the beach.
When he finished his ablutions, he considered the path before him. Athelstan knelt before the crucifix on the wall and silently prayed that he would understand the purpose that God intended for him. With weeks to pass before their supplies were replenished on the island, and no way to leave to get help earlier, the monks were truly isolated.
For the first time in his life, Athelstan appreciated the order that Father Cuthbert had kept in their small community. Of course, there were conflicts between the monks from time to time, but Father Cuthbert always managed the monks, young and old, with grace and wisdom.
Even when Athelstan had gone into this very room when the skies were lit with lightning and the sea echoed with thunder, Father Cuthbert had managed Athelstan’s claims of it being Judgement Day with authority. Athelstan regretted that he hadn’t appreciated the man more when he was alive.
Athelstan had never been an envious man, but he certainly never wanted to be in Father Cuthbert’s position. He silently hoped that another monk would come forward to fill the opening left by Father Cuthbert’s death. He would be happiest if he could get back to his scribe work, prayer, and healing the injured Northman.
He prayed for God to guide him and to forgive him any transgressions he may have committed by being doubtful of those who were in power or leadership. He prayed for wisdom-the wisdom of how to help Ragnar and wisdom of how to keep his brothers safe. He prayed for the wisdom to guide him through the days to come.
~
Ragnar awoke to the prodding of fingers on his scalp. The ache in his head was just as painful as it had been on the beach, only now he found himself beneath a musty blanket. He stretched out his legs and winced at the pain. The warm glow of the hearth danced before his eyelids. It took several moments for him to recognise that he was no longer on a battlefield or a beach.
Without moving, Ragnar took inventory of his injuries. His head ached. His shoulders ached. He was all but certain that his leg was broken. He opened his eyes.
“Well, look who’s awake again,” Athelstan said, pausing in his ministrations to Ragnar’s head.
Ragnar jerked away. He wanted to escape the confines of this room. He wanted to retreat from Athelstan and the enemies who would do him harm. Remembering that he had no axe or blade, he decided to rely on his wits.
“I am unarmed,” Ragnar said, raising his hands to indicate to Athelstan that they were empty.
“Of course you are,” Athelstan said, dropping his prodding hand to his side. “Surely you don’t think that I mean to harm you?”
Ragnar settled back down into the mattress.
“I am unsure,” Ragnar said, reluctantly communicating with Athelstan, despite his strange accent.
Athelstan frowned and dipped his rag into the basin of water that rested on the desk. “Can you remember where you are?” Athelstan asked.
“I see that I am not lying on a beach any longer,” Ragnar said.
“No,” Athelstan said. He tipped Ragnar’s head to the side and resumed his dabbing of the gash in Ragnar’s head.
Athelstan’s prodding felt like a child was beating Ragnar’s head with a tiny fist, something Ragnar remembered from a lifetime ago. A fair-haired boy child, perhaps the son of a kinsman used to do such a thing. But Athelstan was no young boy-not like the boy who Ragnar glimpsed somewhere behind his eyelids. That boy had vanished into the ether. Ragnar struggled to recover the memory of the boy, but he was gone.
“How did I get here?” Ragnar asked.
“We carried you,” Athelstan said. “Some of the monks fashioned a way to transport you over the beach, using some old sheets to make a litter.”
“I did not walk?” Ragnar asked. He grimaced, ashamed of his weakness when he learned that he had not walked the short distance between the beach and the monastery where he now lay. A warrior like him should have the strength of a god when he was injured-his injuries should have given him reason to rise to any challenge.
“No,” Athelstan said. “You’re in no condition to walk. I’d like to examine your leg, if you will permit it.”
Ragnar eyed Athelstan warily. The gods would disapprove of his failure. He would never enter Valhalla if he did not regain his strength and win back his honour. He remembered that much.
“I’ve set bones before,” Athelstan explained. “Here at Lindisfarne, the monks have learned to be quite self-sufficient when one of us becomes injured. Help is several days away, so we must take care of ourselves when a situation arises.”
Ragnar could barely understand what Athelstan was telling him. Athelstan’s Norse was adequate for the most part, but Ragnar had difficulty making sense of some of the expressions that Athelstan used to communicate.
“It may hurt,” Athelstan continued.
Ragnar understood that.
“I’ll give you a stick to bite down upon, and I will pray over your body to ease your suffering before I touch you.”
Ragnar closed his eyes and stopped trying to understand what Athelstan was saying. He rested his head back on the pillow and planned his next move.
The peat fire had warmed Ragnar enough so that he could move his limbs again. He knew he had to fight for his honour, instead of lying disabled in the bed. Although he knew not how he got to Lindisfarne or what his intentions were with the monks there, he knew it was where he met this fate. He sullenly wondered why the gods had even bothered to keep him alive. It was a question he kept asking himself as the memories of his life before Lindisfarne swam through his mind like a salmon striving to swim upstream to spawn. He fought to ignore the pain in his head. He knew he needed to act.
“I’ll just empty this basin and replace the warm water,” Athelstan said. He took the basin from the desk and took a step toward the hearth.
In a flash, Ragnar surged forward and was on him, the knife at Athelstan’s throat.
Athelstan dropped the basin onto the floor, the water splashing onto the stones and turning them dark.
Father Cuthbert’s room went quiet. The hearth fire cast its silent glow against the walls.
“Please… don’t kill me,” Athelstan gasped.
Ignoring the spike of pain in his leg, Ragnar tightened his grip on Athelstan. One hand grabbed the hair at the base of Athelstan’s neck, the other wielded the knife at his throat. The point threatened to draw blood.
“They’ll come,” Athelstan stuttered. “I will shout for help and my brothers will come. May God forgive them for killing you.”
Ragnar saw the fear in Athelstan’s eyes.
Athelstan began to pray, “Pater in me pacem tuam da-”
Beneath Ragnar’s hand, Athelstan’s heart raced. The knife, as small as it was, glinted sharp against Athelstan’s throat. Ragnar could feel that Athelstan did not dare swallow lest Ragnar slice him open and watch the lifeblood drain from him, splattering onto the floor and mixing with the spilled water there.
“I was only trying to help you,” Athelstan whispered.
Although every fibre of Ragnar’s being told him to fight against Athelstan, he could not reconcile his actions with the kindness Athelstan had shown him.
Ragnar loosened his grip and the knife clattered to the floor.
Athelstan regained his feet.
Ragnar watched Athelstan’s chest heave as he caught his breath.
In an instant, Athelstan swept an arm to the ground and snatched the knife from where it fell.
“You mustn’t,” Athelstan said resolutely. “You mustn’t do anything like that again.”
“I know,” Ragnar agreed. His hand went to his side, where fresh pain nagged for his attention, despite the ache in his leg and the throbbing in his head. When his hand came away, his filthy fingers were smeared with blood. He looked at blood, resigned to succumb to the pain again.
“You’re injured worse than we thought you were,” Athelstan said simply.
Ragnar took a step backwards, taking the weight off his injured leg.
Athelstan tossed the knife toward the hearth. He crossed the room and took Ragnar by his upper arms, pushing him gently onto the bed.
“I do not know what I was thinking,” Ragnar said, watching Athelstan carefully for the retaliation that never came.
“Don’t think anymore,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar let out a shuddering breath.
“I need to stop the bleeding,” Athelstan said. He placed a hand on Ragnar’s chest. “With your permission, we’re going to have to remove these rags.”
Ragnar nodded. “Rags?” This was once my best tunic,” he said.
Athelstan squinted at him as if he did not hear correctly.
Alas, this was no time for Ragnar to display his sense of humour. Ragnar was relieved that Athelstan was still willing to help heal him after his aborted attack. He struggled to make his fingers cooperate as he and Athelstan worked to unknot the lacings of his tunic that had been tangled into a mess of blood and fabric and mud from Ragnar’s ordeal on the beach.
“I can use the knife to slice through these, if you promise to behave,” Athelstan said. He still had a twinge of fear in his voice, and for that, Ragnar was regretful.
Ragnar gazed up at him, one eye open wide while the other still fought against the swelling. “Go ahead,” he said.
Now, Athelstan seemed more cautious. He refrained from turning his back on Ragnar.
Ragnar could not blame him. He never should have succumbed to the rage that bubbled inside him. He never should have attacked Athelstan when he had been so willing to help him.
Athelstan went to the hearth and cautiously added more peat to the fire. He grabbed the knife from the stones where he had tossed it and returned to Ragnar’s side. His habit skimmed the floor beneath his bare feet.
Ragnar remained as still as possible while Athelstan sliced through the knots that held Ragnar’s tunic together. Ragnar watched Athelstan as he worked, his tongue trapped between his lips as he carefully cut the fabric away.
“There,” Athelstan said as he peeled back the fabric, inch by inch, from the wound.
The bloody wound stabbed with a sharp pain beneath Ragnar’s ribs. The exposure to the air made it ache anew. He fought to keep from pressing his hand into the mess to alleviate the pain. Instead, he patiently waited as Athelstan refilled the basin with warm water from the hearth and dipped a rag into it to begin his healing.
~
Athelstan searched the shelves in the monastery kitchen. He tossed aside the vials, after looking at each one in the torchlight. The herbs were next for him to scrutinize. Sage, fennel, thyme…. Perhaps he could make a poultice with the sticklewort when his task was through.
“What are you looking for?” Matthew appeared from the dormitory. Athelstan handed him the torch, so he could use both of his hands to search.
“Shhh! I need a needle and a length of silk,” Athelstan said, glancing toward the open dormitory door. “I know Brother Jasper kept some in here for emergencies.”
“Like if he had to stitch together the legs of a turkey while he roasted it with stuffing?” Matthew remarked with a yawn.
Athelstan looked at him curiously. “I am hungry, but no, that’s not what I was thinking at all.”
“Has your Northman’s skull opened up again?”
“No, he has a gash in his side, by his ribs,” Athelstan said. “I don’t know how we didn’t notice it before. And he’s not my Northman.”
With one hand, Matthew rummaged through the pouches of seeds that lined the shelves. “You shouldn’t have left him alone. You could have called for me,” he said. “I would have brought what you’re looking for.”
“I know,” Athelstan said, meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I’m only leaving him alone for a moment.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince Matthew or himself that it was a wise decision to leave Ragnar unattended.
“Is this what you wanted?” Matthew asked. He tipped open a folded piece of parchment. A bone needle and spool of silk fell onto the shelf.
“Thanks, brother,” Athelstan said, snatching up the tools he needed to stitch Ragnar’s side together. He took the torch from Matthew.
Matthew tiptoed to the dormitory door and quietly closed it behind him.
“Aren’t you going back to sleep?” Athelstan whispered.
“No,” Matthew said. “I’m going with you. You’re going to need my help if you want to stitch the heathen.”
Athelstan shook his head. The last thing he needed was for Matthew to learn that Ragnar had held a knife to his throat. That would be the end of Athelstan’s hope to learn more about Ragnar’s ways and to guide him in the way of the Lord.
“You can’t,” Athelstan said. “What if our brothers awaken to find you gone? They’ll all come running down the hall, sure that we were both killed by Ragnar.”
“Who?”
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said. “That’s his name.” This was already going worse than Athelstan could have imagined.
“But what if Ragnar won’t stay still while you stitch his wound?” Matthew asked, already heading toward Father Cuthbert’s old room. “What if he lashes out and attacks you?”
“He won’t attack me,” Athelstan said in a hush. He felt horrible because he knew it was a lie.
Athelstan’s years in the monastery taught him the importance of truth and honesty. He grabbed a decanter of wine from the kitchen and cast his eyes downward as he followed Matthew’s shadow down the darkened hallway.
For Athelstan, the whole trip down the hall to Father Cuthbert’s room was fraught with worry. He feared what would happen if Ragnar attacked Matthew. Or if Ragnar somehow communicated to Matthew that he had held a knife to Athelstan’s throat. That would not bode well for Athelstan’s promise to help restore Lindisfarne to order. In fact, it would likely get him kicked out of the monastery and doom him to begging on the streets of Newcastle.
Fortunately, Matthew had the foresight to stand aside and let Athelstan enter Father Cuthbert’s room first. It was a small relief for Athelstan to see that Ragnar was still there. He hadn’t tried to flee from the monks, nor had he fashioned a weapon to use against him or Matthew-at least not that Athelstan could see.
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said, “This is Matthew. You may remember him from when you were lying on the beach. He was with the group of monks who carried you back here.”
Athelstan knew his Norse was not very nuanced, but still he thought that he might get a thank you out of Ragnar, but it was not to be. He supposed that heathens were not known for being well-mannered.
“Matthew,” Ragnar said, and then, with a gleam in his eye, “Brother.”
Apparently, Ragnar remembered the word Athelstan had taught him on the beach. He rolled his eyes before getting to work.
Matthew went to the head of the bed and examined what Athelstan had done to treat Ragnar’s scalp. “You’ve cleaned his head wound nicely,” he said.
Ragnar gazed at him, wild-eyed, as if he doubted the sincerity of his motives. His fists clenched as if they missed holding a weapon.
Athelstan spoke to Ragnar in his language. “We’re going to have to clean this wound before I try to stitch it closed. I have found that some wine will help with the pain.”
Ragnar obviously understood perfectly because he reached for the wine with eager hands.
“No, it’s not for drinking,” Athelstan said.
“Although it probably could only help,” Matthew said. “Go ahead, let him have some.”
Athelstan frowned at Matthew before handing the wine to Ragnar, who had raised himself up on one elbow to drink. If Matthew had known about Ragnar’s previous behaviour, he’d be less inclined to allow him to indulge.
He watched Ragnar take a few clumsy swallows.
“That’s enough,” Athelstan told Ragnar before catching Matthew’s attention, “He’s had nothing to eat since we found him-not even broth.”
Matthew took hold of the wine decanter after Ragnar had drunk his fill.
Athelstan hoped that the wine would provide him some relief from pain, as his stitching might prove to be an uncomfortable experience, at best.
“I’ll take that,” Athelstan said, taking the wine from Matthew, who looked like he could do with some wine himself, for being in the company of a heathen.
Matthew handed the wine back to Athelstan.
In his travels, Athelstan tried his best to bring healing to those who were afflicted. He spoke the word of the Lord to comfort those in need. In Ragnar’s case, Athelstan was truly grateful that things had gone well, so far, especially with Matthew in the room. He bowed his head and prayed that God would guide his hands to bring some healing to Ragnar.
“Merciful Father, who has created man in your own image, and has made his body to be a temple of the Holy Spirit, sanctify, we pray you, my hands and the hands of Brother Matthew. Strengthen Ragnar in body and soul, and bless our work that we may give comfort to him in the name of your son who lived on this earth, healed the sick, and suffered and died upon the cross. Amen.”
“Amen,” Matthew said, when Athelstan finished his prayer.
Ragnar said nothing, but he watched them with rapt attention.
Athelstan considered teaching Ragnar some English words, if he survived his stitching. It couldn’t hurt for Ragnar to learn a prayer or two-or a few words so he could communicate with the monks, should the need arise.
“Ragnar,” Athelstan stepped toward the head of the bed and met Ragnar’s eyes. “This may hurt deeply. If you need something to bite down upon to stifle your screams, we can find a stick or a piece of leather that’s suitable.”
Ragnar nodded to Athelstan and said, “I can manage it.”
Athelstan lifted the blanket that had been pulled up to Ragnar’s chest. Fresh blood had already seeped from the wound to stain Father Cuthbert’s sister’s handiwork. He drew the blanket down and watched to make sure the fabric didn’t stick to Ragnar’s wound.
Matthew went to the desk and took the thick leather bookmark from the prayer book that rested there.
He stood by and watched, ready to help wherever he was needed.
Athelstan took a fresh rag and doused it in wine. He held the rag over Ragnar’s wound and squeezed until the wine dripped from the cloth.
Ragnar clenched his teeth.
“It’s all right,” Athelstan said. “Just a bit more.”
Although the incident when Ragnar wielded the knife had passed, Athelstan remained distrustful of him. Still, he sought to fulfil his duty as a man of God. Dipping the rag in the wine again, Athelstan performed the same motion, his lips praying all the while in the words that would surely be unfamiliar to Ragnar.
Matthew watched as the wine pooled on Ragnar’s skin.
Ragnar did not cry out in pain.
Athelstan admired his bravery and his strength at resisting the urge to flinch at Athelstan’s touch. Athelstan would surely recoil and writhe in agony if he was so grievously injured.
When Athelstan was satisfied that the wound had been sufficiently cleaned, he pressed a fresh rag atop the torn skin.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Athelstan asked, his hand applying pressure to Ragnar’s wound.
Ragnar let out a breath. “I have survived worse.”
Oh,” Athelstan remarked. “Are you remembering more about where you came from?”
Matthew looked from Athelstan to Ragnar and back again, as he could not comprehend the conversation between them.
“I remember being injured in battles,” Ragnar said thoughtfully. “But I know not why, or where.”
Athelstan could probably guess where Ragnar’s injuries lay. Now that he had seen Ragnar shirtless, he had witnessed a map of scars that marked the Northman’s body. Some looked like they had been caused by a blade. Still others looked like an arrow had once pierced his flesh. No matter what lands Ragnar had done battle on, he had suffered in the process.
Now, it was time to add another scar to Ragnar’s vast collection.
Athelstan took the spool and drew a length of silk from it.
Matthew took advantage of the pause in treatment. He busied himself with the peat fire while Athelstan took care to thread the needle with the silk.
“He’ll be glad he drank some wine before this part, I suspect,” Matthew said.
Athelstan nodded and said, “He’s been very brave and tolerant so far. I suspect he will be the same when he feels the needle’s pierce.”
Matthew returned to Ragnar’s side and stood ready with his piece of leather at Ragnar’s head.
Athelstan bit his lip and made the first pass of needle through the angry red skin that lined the wound.
Ragnar’s muscles tensed at the intrusion.
Athelstan drew the needle through and made a stitch.
Ragnar seemed to relax.
Athelstan glanced at Ragnar’s calm face and grew satisfied that he had judged his tolerance for pain correctly.
Athelstan worked to make a line of neat stitches across Ragnar’s skin below his ribcage.
Matthew watched Ragnar’s face for signs of distress, and finding none, he left the piece of leather on the desk.
Beads of sweat formed on Ragnar’s brow with each stitch that Athelstan took. Nearing the end of his ministrations, Athelstan spread his left hand on Ragnar’s chest so he could hold the skin in place while he made the final knots.
The room was silent, except for the crackle of the hearth that sputtered with sparks every once in a while.
Warmth rose from Ragnar’s skin, his heart beating just below the surface, like any other man who was created in God’s image. Northmen and Englishmen were not so different after all.
Athelstan found himself wishing Matthew wasn’t in the room with them. He trusted easily, but he knew that it was dangerous, after Ragnar had held the knife to his throat. In one sudden movement, Ragnar could spring into action and all Athelstan’s work, and all his trust, would have been for naught.
After Athelstan trimmed the last length of thread, Ragnar reached forward with a warm hand and clasped Athelstan’s wrist.
Athelstan’s breath caught in his throat.
“Thank you, priest,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan opened his mouth and, at a loss for words, closed it again, like a fish on the line. He could only struggle against the unseen force of Ragnar, whose blue eyes drew him closer, reeling him in, hand over hand, until Athelstan had no choice but to surrender.
“Athelstan?” Matthew called, shaking Athelstan from his moment of contemplation. “I’ll help you set his leg now.”
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Athelstan/Ragnar
Rating: R
Words: 66,794
A/N: Uppsalir was written for NaNoWriMo 2018. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
The journey from the cold beach to the monastery was long and arduous. Although it was only a half-mile in distance, it took more than an hour for the monks to carry their unwieldly load over the jagged rocks and slippery sand. Athelstan welcomed the half-dozen monks who ventured out from their hiding places to join Brother Matthew and himself in the rescue of Ragnar, the Northman.
Brother Matthew had the foresight to bring several rough sheets from the monastery laundry with him. With the monks’ help, they were able to roll Ragnar onto the sheets from where he lay on the beach. Ragnar had not regained consciousness again, unless Athelstan took his various grunts and groans into consideration.
Athelstan was pleased that so many monks had followed Matthew in his journey to the water. He suspected those who wanted nothing to do with the rescue of the Northman had remained at Lindisfarne, either cowering in their dormitory or planning how to rid themselves of the devil who belonged to the tribe of men who had attacked their brothers. May God forgive them for their thoughts of violence against this suffering man.
Athelstan couldn’t blame his brothers for being wary. The Northmen had attacked without warning and they spared almost no Englishman they encountered. In some ways, Athelstan considered himself lucky that he was spared the worst of their actions. He searched for a reason that God had allowed him to escape the raid with his life, only to fall into another challenging situation by discovering Ragnar on the beach.
This ordeal was surely the Lord’s way of challenging Athelstan to rise to the occasion and do God’s will. Perhaps it was God’s will that he delivered his word to this heathen. Why else would God have put Ragnar in his path?
God works in mysterious ways, Athelstan had often realized. He hoped that his connection with God would only strengthen if he could prevent the heathen from engaging in the crude warlike behaviour Athelstan had witnessed when his brothers were slain. He had brought the word of God to many places in his travels. Perhaps God wanted him to bring his word to the heathens, starting with this one injured Northman. He supposed he would have to wait and see if Ragnar survived another day to find out.
Athelstan stepped over the stones that led to the monastery gate, still hanging off its hinges from the raid. The scent of burnt wood filled his nostrils. Although he and several of the other monks did their best to keep the fires from spreading, there was damaged wood to be replaced and walls to repair. It would be a long summer of hard work if they were to get Lindisfarne back into good condition before winter came.
As the monks carried the Northman’s litter toward the monastery, Athelstan remembered the carnage of the raid all too well. Maybe this was God’s greatest test for him-the loss of his friends measured against the saving of this Northman’s soul. Athelstan knew he had to do his best to reconcile what God was asking of him with the wreckage that the Northmen had left behind.
“You can’t mean to treat him in our dormitory,” Brother Finian objected as soon as the monks entered the main hall of the monastery.
“Show some compassion. He’s injured and he may not survive the night,” Athelstan retorted.
Athelstan glanced around the small dormitory where the monk’s beds lined the walls. Usually two dozen monks could sleep comfortably in this room. A half-dozen monks had been killed. Another half-dozen had been captured and taken away on the sea. There was plenty of room in the dormitory. The bunks were sturdy, if uncomfortable. Athelstan had always been grateful to sleep on something besides the hard floor that he knew before he came to live at Lindisfarne. Still, Athelstan did not want to argue about where the Northman might stay.
“He needs to rest somewhere. He’s been lying on the beach, exposed to the elements since sometime yesterday,” Athelstan said.
“I don’t care if you bring him back to the beach to lay him to rest,” Finian said, wringing his hands. “He doesn’t belong here, Brother Athelstan.”
“Finian, that would be cruel beyond measure,” Athelstan said with a clenched jaw. “What you suggest would be no more helpful than the damage the raiding Northmen brought here yesterday.”
“Look,” Matthew said, pushing his way between Athelstan and Finian, “I know you’re angry because of the attack on our brothers, but this man is still alive. We need to do what the Lord would have us do with him. If we can heal him, so be it. I don’t care where he sleeps.”
“I agree with you, Matthew,” Athelstan said.
Athelstan wanted the arguing to end. All the monks had experienced the ghastly ordeal of the attack on the monastery. Now that the bodies had been buried, and supplies had been rationed, it was time to work together for the common good. There was still much work to be done to restore Lindisfarne to the condition it was in before the Northmen attacked. It was no use arguing about where an injured man would sleep.
“I know where we can take the Northman, where he will not be a bother to the monks who object,” Athelstan said. It seemed unconventional, and rather sacrilegious, but it was the only option at the time. Athelstan clasped the nearby shoulder of Daniel, one of the monks who had helped carry the litter back to the monastery and said, “Follow me.”
Daniel directed the monks to hoist the litter again and they followed Athelstan out of the dormitory.
Athelstan led the men down the torch-lit hall, past the scriptorium, to where the more private rooms of the monastery were built into the stone walls. He grabbed a torch from one of the braziers and carried it to the end of the hall. He pushed the door open. A crucifix greeted him from above the bed in the dim room. A tiny window on the far wall showed that the sun would soon be gone. Athelstan’s stomach rumbled with hunger. The day on the beach had passed slowly, but now with the fading daylight, the dinner hour had come and gone.
“But this is Father Cuthbert’s room,” Matthew said.
“This will be far enough away from Finian and the others who are wary about sharing their quarters with the Northman,” Athelstan said. “It’s for our own good that this man is not visible to the monks who survived the worst of the attack. There’s no need to upset them further by flaunting this man’s whereabouts in the faces.”
“You’re right Brother Athelstan,” Daniel said. “Our brother’s nerves are frayed enough because of the lives lost at this man’s hands.”
“I hope they remember,” Brother Lucian said. “Whatsoever you did for the least of my brothers, such you have done unto me.”
Athelstan was glad that at least Brother Lucian was sympathetic.
“Let’s bring him over to the bed,” Brother Benedict said. “He’s not getting any lighter.”
“Despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten in days,” Athelstan quipped. He supposed he should be grateful that he had the help from most of his brothers as they lifted the sheet carrying the Northman to the bed that once belonged to Father Cuthbert.
“You should stay with him, Athelstan,” Lucian said. “Matthew informed us that you can speak his language.”
“Yes,” Athelstan said, turning to Lucian. “It would be for the best.”
Still, Athelstan feared what might happen if he was left alone with Ragnar. He would not be able to defend himself against the might of a Northman, despite his injured state. If it was God’s will that Athelstan be killed, then he would do his best to accept it and hope that his death would serve as a lesson to others.
“I’ll go to the kitchen to find something for you to eat,” Matthew said, clasping Athelstan’s shoulder. “You must be as hungry as I am.”
“May God be with you, brother,” Benedict said, as he and the remaining monks left Athelstan by Ragnar’s bedside.
Athelstan closed the door behind them and went to the fireplace. He knelt before the hearth and searched inside for the warm peat. His fingers were stiff with cold. He could only imagine how Ragnar felt after lying on the beach for a night and most of a day.
Satisfied that the peat was warm enough to revive, Athelstan used the small broom to brush the ash from it. He blew on the peat until it smouldered, the smoke puffing minimally into the room before it rose up the chimney.
Athelstan wiped his hands on his habit and got to his feet. It would take a while for the room to warm, so Athelstan busied himself with tending to Ragnar’s cold and bloody body.
Inside Father Cuthbert’s blanket chest, Athelstan found a woven throw with fur edging. He held it in his outstretched arms before the fireplace. Someone had obviously taken great care to weave a pattern into the blanket. Athelstan suspected Father Cuthbert’s sister had given the blanket to him on one of her rare visits to the monastery.
Athelstan grimaced. He dreaded the day when the men came to resupply the monastery with goods. The monthly delivery of news to the monks went both ways. He regretted that he would have to inform the men of Father Cuthbert’s death. It saddened him to think of the grief it would cause to his family.
While Father Cuthbert had a family, it was rare for a cloistered monk to have a family member interested in learning about the monastery and news that came from within. Most of the monks had arrived there as boys, when a family had too many mouths to feed. In times of famine, donating a boy to the monastery could alleviate a family’s obligation to provide for their children. After the boys began their monastic studies, they rarely saw their families again.
Athelstan didn’t wonder what had become of his own family. Word travelled to the monastery when, months before Athelstan’s tenth birthday, he learned that his parents, brothers, and sister had succumbed to the plague. He barely remembered them.
When he was a child, Athelstan sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he had a living family of his own. He tried not to dwell on it. He reminded himself that the brothers at the monastery were his family now and Almighty God was the only father he needed. He considered himself lucky to have been marked out to serve a life of devotion to God. He embraced his duty with all his heart.
The peat smouldered and Athelstan caught himself dallying in front of its heat. Taking the blanket, he walked to Ragnar’s bedside. The man still slept, seemingly unaware that he had been brought indoors and into the very monastery that he and his kinsmen had decimated a day earlier.
Athelstan spread the blanket over Ragnar. He watched as the Northman’s chest rose and fell. Relieved that Ragnar was still alive, Athelstan wondered if the day would come when Ragnar could remember from where he came and why he had travelled to Lindisfarne with the Northmen.
When Ragnar awoke… if he woke… the monks would have to do something to mend his broken bones and tend to the wounds he had suffered in the attack. Until then, Athelstan could wait. He drew up a chair from Father Cuthbert’s desk and sat beside the bed.
Soon, a gentle knock came on the door and Athelstan rose from his seat to answer it.
“I’ve brought some stew to warm you,” Matthew said. He carried the bowls into the room and set them on the desk.
“Thank you, Brother Matthew. Have you eaten already?”
Matthew did not take his eyes off Ragnar’s reclining form.
Athelstan thought it must be strange for Matthew to see Ragnar in Father Cuthbert’s place.
“Yes, I already had my fill from the kitchen,” Matthew said. “Brother Hedrick was kind enough to keep the pot simmering while we transported the Northman from the beach.”
“Please give him my thanks,” Athelstan said. He made the sign of the cross and prayed. “Thank you, God in heaven, for the food that I am about to receive. Amen.”
“I don’t suppose he will be well enough to eat anything soon,” Matthew said, nodding toward the bed where Ragnar lay.
Athelstan dipped his spoon into the stew and brought it to his lips. “I don’t think so,” Athelstan said. “I’m afraid he hasn’t regained consciousness since we found him on the beach.”
Athelstan sipped the broth from his spoon. Earlier in the day, he had helped Brother Hedrick divide the remaining food stores into rations that would last until their supplies came. He was grateful that there was enough meat and vegetables to make a stew, although they had to take care not to run out. Studded with carrots and potatoes, the warm stew was the first thing Athelstan had eaten in many hours and it warmed him from the inside.
“Were you able to learn anything from him?” Matthew asked.
Athelstan put his spoon down. “He seems to have lost his memory. He cannot remember why he came here, and he does not remember anything about the raid. I doubt he even knows what it means to be without the light of the Lord, Jesus Christ.”
“Poor soul,” Matthew said. “What will we do with him if he recovers? Send him on his way, back to the sea from whence he came? Or will we keep him here until the king’s men can dispense justice for all the harm he and his men have done to the monastery and to our brethren?”
“I’m not sure,” Athelstan said, resuming his meal. He truly did not know whether each of Matthew’s ideas would come to fruition. Perhaps there was a third way, a better way that would see that justice was served and that Ragnar’s soul was saved. He prayed that God would show him the way.
“And you do not fear him?” Matthew asked.
“I do fear for him,” Athelstan said. “I fear for his soul.”
Athelstan finished his broth and gave the bowl back to Matthew.
“I’ve brought some water for you to wash with,” Matthew said, “I left a pot outside the door.”
Matthew brought the pot of warm water inside the room and set it on the grate in the hearth to heat more thoroughly.
“Thank you,” Athelstan said, clasping Matthew’s shoulder as he walked to the door.
“And, I know you’ll be opposed to it, but I’ve brought you this, as well,” Matthew said. He reached into his habit and pulled out a knife.
It was only a small knife, one they used in the kitchen for chopping herbs, but Athelstan was grateful for Matthew’s thoughts about protection. He glanced at Ragnar to ensure that he was still asleep.
“Thank you, Brother Matthew,” Athelstan said. “It shouldn’t be necessary, but I will keep it with me, along with your good thoughts.”
“Be safe,” Matthew said and bid Athelstan goodnight.
Athelstan closed the door behind Matthew. He considered carefully hiding the knife in his habit as Matthew had done, but he decided against it. Instead, he placed it out of Ragnar’s reach on the desk.
Athelstan went to the hearth and tested the water to make sure it had some heat before dipping a rag in. Removing his sandals from his feet, he poured some of the water into the basin that Father Cuthbert had kept for washing. There, Athelstan washed the day’s grime from his face and hands before sitting in the chair to tend to his feet.
He listened to Ragnar’s breathing that joined the chants of evensong wafting on the breeze through Father Cuthbert’s window. The tones of the prayer soothed Athelstan and brought him back into the light of God that seemed so easy to put aside after all that had transpired that day.
He placed the basin on the floor and sunk each foot into the warm water. Humming along to the evening prayers, Athelstan leaned over and dabbed at the dirt that accumulated between his toes. He liked feeling clean again, after spending so much time in the muck at the beach.
When he finished his ablutions, he considered the path before him. Athelstan knelt before the crucifix on the wall and silently prayed that he would understand the purpose that God intended for him. With weeks to pass before their supplies were replenished on the island, and no way to leave to get help earlier, the monks were truly isolated.
For the first time in his life, Athelstan appreciated the order that Father Cuthbert had kept in their small community. Of course, there were conflicts between the monks from time to time, but Father Cuthbert always managed the monks, young and old, with grace and wisdom.
Even when Athelstan had gone into this very room when the skies were lit with lightning and the sea echoed with thunder, Father Cuthbert had managed Athelstan’s claims of it being Judgement Day with authority. Athelstan regretted that he hadn’t appreciated the man more when he was alive.
Athelstan had never been an envious man, but he certainly never wanted to be in Father Cuthbert’s position. He silently hoped that another monk would come forward to fill the opening left by Father Cuthbert’s death. He would be happiest if he could get back to his scribe work, prayer, and healing the injured Northman.
He prayed for God to guide him and to forgive him any transgressions he may have committed by being doubtful of those who were in power or leadership. He prayed for wisdom-the wisdom of how to help Ragnar and wisdom of how to keep his brothers safe. He prayed for the wisdom to guide him through the days to come.
~
Ragnar awoke to the prodding of fingers on his scalp. The ache in his head was just as painful as it had been on the beach, only now he found himself beneath a musty blanket. He stretched out his legs and winced at the pain. The warm glow of the hearth danced before his eyelids. It took several moments for him to recognise that he was no longer on a battlefield or a beach.
Without moving, Ragnar took inventory of his injuries. His head ached. His shoulders ached. He was all but certain that his leg was broken. He opened his eyes.
“Well, look who’s awake again,” Athelstan said, pausing in his ministrations to Ragnar’s head.
Ragnar jerked away. He wanted to escape the confines of this room. He wanted to retreat from Athelstan and the enemies who would do him harm. Remembering that he had no axe or blade, he decided to rely on his wits.
“I am unarmed,” Ragnar said, raising his hands to indicate to Athelstan that they were empty.
“Of course you are,” Athelstan said, dropping his prodding hand to his side. “Surely you don’t think that I mean to harm you?”
Ragnar settled back down into the mattress.
“I am unsure,” Ragnar said, reluctantly communicating with Athelstan, despite his strange accent.
Athelstan frowned and dipped his rag into the basin of water that rested on the desk. “Can you remember where you are?” Athelstan asked.
“I see that I am not lying on a beach any longer,” Ragnar said.
“No,” Athelstan said. He tipped Ragnar’s head to the side and resumed his dabbing of the gash in Ragnar’s head.
Athelstan’s prodding felt like a child was beating Ragnar’s head with a tiny fist, something Ragnar remembered from a lifetime ago. A fair-haired boy child, perhaps the son of a kinsman used to do such a thing. But Athelstan was no young boy-not like the boy who Ragnar glimpsed somewhere behind his eyelids. That boy had vanished into the ether. Ragnar struggled to recover the memory of the boy, but he was gone.
“How did I get here?” Ragnar asked.
“We carried you,” Athelstan said. “Some of the monks fashioned a way to transport you over the beach, using some old sheets to make a litter.”
“I did not walk?” Ragnar asked. He grimaced, ashamed of his weakness when he learned that he had not walked the short distance between the beach and the monastery where he now lay. A warrior like him should have the strength of a god when he was injured-his injuries should have given him reason to rise to any challenge.
“No,” Athelstan said. “You’re in no condition to walk. I’d like to examine your leg, if you will permit it.”
Ragnar eyed Athelstan warily. The gods would disapprove of his failure. He would never enter Valhalla if he did not regain his strength and win back his honour. He remembered that much.
“I’ve set bones before,” Athelstan explained. “Here at Lindisfarne, the monks have learned to be quite self-sufficient when one of us becomes injured. Help is several days away, so we must take care of ourselves when a situation arises.”
Ragnar could barely understand what Athelstan was telling him. Athelstan’s Norse was adequate for the most part, but Ragnar had difficulty making sense of some of the expressions that Athelstan used to communicate.
“It may hurt,” Athelstan continued.
Ragnar understood that.
“I’ll give you a stick to bite down upon, and I will pray over your body to ease your suffering before I touch you.”
Ragnar closed his eyes and stopped trying to understand what Athelstan was saying. He rested his head back on the pillow and planned his next move.
The peat fire had warmed Ragnar enough so that he could move his limbs again. He knew he had to fight for his honour, instead of lying disabled in the bed. Although he knew not how he got to Lindisfarne or what his intentions were with the monks there, he knew it was where he met this fate. He sullenly wondered why the gods had even bothered to keep him alive. It was a question he kept asking himself as the memories of his life before Lindisfarne swam through his mind like a salmon striving to swim upstream to spawn. He fought to ignore the pain in his head. He knew he needed to act.
“I’ll just empty this basin and replace the warm water,” Athelstan said. He took the basin from the desk and took a step toward the hearth.
In a flash, Ragnar surged forward and was on him, the knife at Athelstan’s throat.
Athelstan dropped the basin onto the floor, the water splashing onto the stones and turning them dark.
Father Cuthbert’s room went quiet. The hearth fire cast its silent glow against the walls.
“Please… don’t kill me,” Athelstan gasped.
Ignoring the spike of pain in his leg, Ragnar tightened his grip on Athelstan. One hand grabbed the hair at the base of Athelstan’s neck, the other wielded the knife at his throat. The point threatened to draw blood.
“They’ll come,” Athelstan stuttered. “I will shout for help and my brothers will come. May God forgive them for killing you.”
Ragnar saw the fear in Athelstan’s eyes.
Athelstan began to pray, “Pater in me pacem tuam da-”
Beneath Ragnar’s hand, Athelstan’s heart raced. The knife, as small as it was, glinted sharp against Athelstan’s throat. Ragnar could feel that Athelstan did not dare swallow lest Ragnar slice him open and watch the lifeblood drain from him, splattering onto the floor and mixing with the spilled water there.
“I was only trying to help you,” Athelstan whispered.
Although every fibre of Ragnar’s being told him to fight against Athelstan, he could not reconcile his actions with the kindness Athelstan had shown him.
Ragnar loosened his grip and the knife clattered to the floor.
Athelstan regained his feet.
Ragnar watched Athelstan’s chest heave as he caught his breath.
In an instant, Athelstan swept an arm to the ground and snatched the knife from where it fell.
“You mustn’t,” Athelstan said resolutely. “You mustn’t do anything like that again.”
“I know,” Ragnar agreed. His hand went to his side, where fresh pain nagged for his attention, despite the ache in his leg and the throbbing in his head. When his hand came away, his filthy fingers were smeared with blood. He looked at blood, resigned to succumb to the pain again.
“You’re injured worse than we thought you were,” Athelstan said simply.
Ragnar took a step backwards, taking the weight off his injured leg.
Athelstan tossed the knife toward the hearth. He crossed the room and took Ragnar by his upper arms, pushing him gently onto the bed.
“I do not know what I was thinking,” Ragnar said, watching Athelstan carefully for the retaliation that never came.
“Don’t think anymore,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar let out a shuddering breath.
“I need to stop the bleeding,” Athelstan said. He placed a hand on Ragnar’s chest. “With your permission, we’re going to have to remove these rags.”
Ragnar nodded. “Rags?” This was once my best tunic,” he said.
Athelstan squinted at him as if he did not hear correctly.
Alas, this was no time for Ragnar to display his sense of humour. Ragnar was relieved that Athelstan was still willing to help heal him after his aborted attack. He struggled to make his fingers cooperate as he and Athelstan worked to unknot the lacings of his tunic that had been tangled into a mess of blood and fabric and mud from Ragnar’s ordeal on the beach.
“I can use the knife to slice through these, if you promise to behave,” Athelstan said. He still had a twinge of fear in his voice, and for that, Ragnar was regretful.
Ragnar gazed up at him, one eye open wide while the other still fought against the swelling. “Go ahead,” he said.
Now, Athelstan seemed more cautious. He refrained from turning his back on Ragnar.
Ragnar could not blame him. He never should have succumbed to the rage that bubbled inside him. He never should have attacked Athelstan when he had been so willing to help him.
Athelstan went to the hearth and cautiously added more peat to the fire. He grabbed the knife from the stones where he had tossed it and returned to Ragnar’s side. His habit skimmed the floor beneath his bare feet.
Ragnar remained as still as possible while Athelstan sliced through the knots that held Ragnar’s tunic together. Ragnar watched Athelstan as he worked, his tongue trapped between his lips as he carefully cut the fabric away.
“There,” Athelstan said as he peeled back the fabric, inch by inch, from the wound.
The bloody wound stabbed with a sharp pain beneath Ragnar’s ribs. The exposure to the air made it ache anew. He fought to keep from pressing his hand into the mess to alleviate the pain. Instead, he patiently waited as Athelstan refilled the basin with warm water from the hearth and dipped a rag into it to begin his healing.
~
Athelstan searched the shelves in the monastery kitchen. He tossed aside the vials, after looking at each one in the torchlight. The herbs were next for him to scrutinize. Sage, fennel, thyme…. Perhaps he could make a poultice with the sticklewort when his task was through.
“What are you looking for?” Matthew appeared from the dormitory. Athelstan handed him the torch, so he could use both of his hands to search.
“Shhh! I need a needle and a length of silk,” Athelstan said, glancing toward the open dormitory door. “I know Brother Jasper kept some in here for emergencies.”
“Like if he had to stitch together the legs of a turkey while he roasted it with stuffing?” Matthew remarked with a yawn.
Athelstan looked at him curiously. “I am hungry, but no, that’s not what I was thinking at all.”
“Has your Northman’s skull opened up again?”
“No, he has a gash in his side, by his ribs,” Athelstan said. “I don’t know how we didn’t notice it before. And he’s not my Northman.”
With one hand, Matthew rummaged through the pouches of seeds that lined the shelves. “You shouldn’t have left him alone. You could have called for me,” he said. “I would have brought what you’re looking for.”
“I know,” Athelstan said, meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I’m only leaving him alone for a moment.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince Matthew or himself that it was a wise decision to leave Ragnar unattended.
“Is this what you wanted?” Matthew asked. He tipped open a folded piece of parchment. A bone needle and spool of silk fell onto the shelf.
“Thanks, brother,” Athelstan said, snatching up the tools he needed to stitch Ragnar’s side together. He took the torch from Matthew.
Matthew tiptoed to the dormitory door and quietly closed it behind him.
“Aren’t you going back to sleep?” Athelstan whispered.
“No,” Matthew said. “I’m going with you. You’re going to need my help if you want to stitch the heathen.”
Athelstan shook his head. The last thing he needed was for Matthew to learn that Ragnar had held a knife to his throat. That would be the end of Athelstan’s hope to learn more about Ragnar’s ways and to guide him in the way of the Lord.
“You can’t,” Athelstan said. “What if our brothers awaken to find you gone? They’ll all come running down the hall, sure that we were both killed by Ragnar.”
“Who?”
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said. “That’s his name.” This was already going worse than Athelstan could have imagined.
“But what if Ragnar won’t stay still while you stitch his wound?” Matthew asked, already heading toward Father Cuthbert’s old room. “What if he lashes out and attacks you?”
“He won’t attack me,” Athelstan said in a hush. He felt horrible because he knew it was a lie.
Athelstan’s years in the monastery taught him the importance of truth and honesty. He grabbed a decanter of wine from the kitchen and cast his eyes downward as he followed Matthew’s shadow down the darkened hallway.
For Athelstan, the whole trip down the hall to Father Cuthbert’s room was fraught with worry. He feared what would happen if Ragnar attacked Matthew. Or if Ragnar somehow communicated to Matthew that he had held a knife to Athelstan’s throat. That would not bode well for Athelstan’s promise to help restore Lindisfarne to order. In fact, it would likely get him kicked out of the monastery and doom him to begging on the streets of Newcastle.
Fortunately, Matthew had the foresight to stand aside and let Athelstan enter Father Cuthbert’s room first. It was a small relief for Athelstan to see that Ragnar was still there. He hadn’t tried to flee from the monks, nor had he fashioned a weapon to use against him or Matthew-at least not that Athelstan could see.
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said, “This is Matthew. You may remember him from when you were lying on the beach. He was with the group of monks who carried you back here.”
Athelstan knew his Norse was not very nuanced, but still he thought that he might get a thank you out of Ragnar, but it was not to be. He supposed that heathens were not known for being well-mannered.
“Matthew,” Ragnar said, and then, with a gleam in his eye, “Brother.”
Apparently, Ragnar remembered the word Athelstan had taught him on the beach. He rolled his eyes before getting to work.
Matthew went to the head of the bed and examined what Athelstan had done to treat Ragnar’s scalp. “You’ve cleaned his head wound nicely,” he said.
Ragnar gazed at him, wild-eyed, as if he doubted the sincerity of his motives. His fists clenched as if they missed holding a weapon.
Athelstan spoke to Ragnar in his language. “We’re going to have to clean this wound before I try to stitch it closed. I have found that some wine will help with the pain.”
Ragnar obviously understood perfectly because he reached for the wine with eager hands.
“No, it’s not for drinking,” Athelstan said.
“Although it probably could only help,” Matthew said. “Go ahead, let him have some.”
Athelstan frowned at Matthew before handing the wine to Ragnar, who had raised himself up on one elbow to drink. If Matthew had known about Ragnar’s previous behaviour, he’d be less inclined to allow him to indulge.
He watched Ragnar take a few clumsy swallows.
“That’s enough,” Athelstan told Ragnar before catching Matthew’s attention, “He’s had nothing to eat since we found him-not even broth.”
Matthew took hold of the wine decanter after Ragnar had drunk his fill.
Athelstan hoped that the wine would provide him some relief from pain, as his stitching might prove to be an uncomfortable experience, at best.
“I’ll take that,” Athelstan said, taking the wine from Matthew, who looked like he could do with some wine himself, for being in the company of a heathen.
Matthew handed the wine back to Athelstan.
In his travels, Athelstan tried his best to bring healing to those who were afflicted. He spoke the word of the Lord to comfort those in need. In Ragnar’s case, Athelstan was truly grateful that things had gone well, so far, especially with Matthew in the room. He bowed his head and prayed that God would guide his hands to bring some healing to Ragnar.
“Merciful Father, who has created man in your own image, and has made his body to be a temple of the Holy Spirit, sanctify, we pray you, my hands and the hands of Brother Matthew. Strengthen Ragnar in body and soul, and bless our work that we may give comfort to him in the name of your son who lived on this earth, healed the sick, and suffered and died upon the cross. Amen.”
“Amen,” Matthew said, when Athelstan finished his prayer.
Ragnar said nothing, but he watched them with rapt attention.
Athelstan considered teaching Ragnar some English words, if he survived his stitching. It couldn’t hurt for Ragnar to learn a prayer or two-or a few words so he could communicate with the monks, should the need arise.
“Ragnar,” Athelstan stepped toward the head of the bed and met Ragnar’s eyes. “This may hurt deeply. If you need something to bite down upon to stifle your screams, we can find a stick or a piece of leather that’s suitable.”
Ragnar nodded to Athelstan and said, “I can manage it.”
Athelstan lifted the blanket that had been pulled up to Ragnar’s chest. Fresh blood had already seeped from the wound to stain Father Cuthbert’s sister’s handiwork. He drew the blanket down and watched to make sure the fabric didn’t stick to Ragnar’s wound.
Matthew went to the desk and took the thick leather bookmark from the prayer book that rested there.
He stood by and watched, ready to help wherever he was needed.
Athelstan took a fresh rag and doused it in wine. He held the rag over Ragnar’s wound and squeezed until the wine dripped from the cloth.
Ragnar clenched his teeth.
“It’s all right,” Athelstan said. “Just a bit more.”
Although the incident when Ragnar wielded the knife had passed, Athelstan remained distrustful of him. Still, he sought to fulfil his duty as a man of God. Dipping the rag in the wine again, Athelstan performed the same motion, his lips praying all the while in the words that would surely be unfamiliar to Ragnar.
Matthew watched as the wine pooled on Ragnar’s skin.
Ragnar did not cry out in pain.
Athelstan admired his bravery and his strength at resisting the urge to flinch at Athelstan’s touch. Athelstan would surely recoil and writhe in agony if he was so grievously injured.
When Athelstan was satisfied that the wound had been sufficiently cleaned, he pressed a fresh rag atop the torn skin.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Athelstan asked, his hand applying pressure to Ragnar’s wound.
Ragnar let out a breath. “I have survived worse.”
Oh,” Athelstan remarked. “Are you remembering more about where you came from?”
Matthew looked from Athelstan to Ragnar and back again, as he could not comprehend the conversation between them.
“I remember being injured in battles,” Ragnar said thoughtfully. “But I know not why, or where.”
Athelstan could probably guess where Ragnar’s injuries lay. Now that he had seen Ragnar shirtless, he had witnessed a map of scars that marked the Northman’s body. Some looked like they had been caused by a blade. Still others looked like an arrow had once pierced his flesh. No matter what lands Ragnar had done battle on, he had suffered in the process.
Now, it was time to add another scar to Ragnar’s vast collection.
Athelstan took the spool and drew a length of silk from it.
Matthew took advantage of the pause in treatment. He busied himself with the peat fire while Athelstan took care to thread the needle with the silk.
“He’ll be glad he drank some wine before this part, I suspect,” Matthew said.
Athelstan nodded and said, “He’s been very brave and tolerant so far. I suspect he will be the same when he feels the needle’s pierce.”
Matthew returned to Ragnar’s side and stood ready with his piece of leather at Ragnar’s head.
Athelstan bit his lip and made the first pass of needle through the angry red skin that lined the wound.
Ragnar’s muscles tensed at the intrusion.
Athelstan drew the needle through and made a stitch.
Ragnar seemed to relax.
Athelstan glanced at Ragnar’s calm face and grew satisfied that he had judged his tolerance for pain correctly.
Athelstan worked to make a line of neat stitches across Ragnar’s skin below his ribcage.
Matthew watched Ragnar’s face for signs of distress, and finding none, he left the piece of leather on the desk.
Beads of sweat formed on Ragnar’s brow with each stitch that Athelstan took. Nearing the end of his ministrations, Athelstan spread his left hand on Ragnar’s chest so he could hold the skin in place while he made the final knots.
The room was silent, except for the crackle of the hearth that sputtered with sparks every once in a while.
Warmth rose from Ragnar’s skin, his heart beating just below the surface, like any other man who was created in God’s image. Northmen and Englishmen were not so different after all.
Athelstan found himself wishing Matthew wasn’t in the room with them. He trusted easily, but he knew that it was dangerous, after Ragnar had held the knife to his throat. In one sudden movement, Ragnar could spring into action and all Athelstan’s work, and all his trust, would have been for naught.
After Athelstan trimmed the last length of thread, Ragnar reached forward with a warm hand and clasped Athelstan’s wrist.
Athelstan’s breath caught in his throat.
“Thank you, priest,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan opened his mouth and, at a loss for words, closed it again, like a fish on the line. He could only struggle against the unseen force of Ragnar, whose blue eyes drew him closer, reeling him in, hand over hand, until Athelstan had no choice but to surrender.
“Athelstan?” Matthew called, shaking Athelstan from his moment of contemplation. “I’ll help you set his leg now.”
~