"I swear before God almighty, I declare war eternal on the Northman Bjorn. I swear to our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the blessed virgin..." Aella's voice trembled with a fury so deep it had turned cold. "One day I will avenge myself on him. I will bring him to justice. I will bring him to death. So help me God."
He stood there on the shore, his eyes fixed on Bjorn's ships. The vessels grew smaller with each passing moment, their sails catching the wind as they moved farther from the coast. The water between them stretched wider and wider. Soon they would be nothing but dark shapes on the horizon. Then nothing at all.
Aella's hands were clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight. He wanted to look away but he couldn't. He had to watch them leave. He had to see it with his own eyes—the sight of his enemy escaping unpunished.
That's what Bjorn is. His enemy. Eternal enemy.
When the last ship finally disappeared from view, Aella turned away from the sea. His movements were stiff. His body felt heavy, as though something inside him had been carved out and left hollow.
His men were waiting nearby. They stood silently, their faces carefully blank. They had seen their king humiliated. They had watched him hand over everything to buy back the hostages and secure peace. They knew what it meant.
Aella walked toward them slowly. His boots pressed into the damp sand.
"Find where the other Northmen have sailed," he said sharply.
The men looked at him. One of them nodded.
"Find them," Aella repeated. "I want to know where they went. I want to know everything."
He needed something. Anything. A way to reclaim what had been taken from him. Not just gold or silver—those could be replaced, eventually. But the respect. The fear. The authority that made men follow a king without question. That was what Bjorn had stripped away.
And if he couldn't have Bjorn yet, he would take another group of Northmen. He would crush them. He would seize their ships and study how they were built. He would learn their secrets. Then he would build his own fleet—bigger, stronger. And when the time came, he would be ready.
But even as he made these plans, a different kind of weight pressed down on him.
His treasury was empty. Completely empty. Including the church's.
He had given Bjorn everything—every coin, every piece of silver, every golden chalice that had once belonged to the Church. He had stripped the altars bare.
And three nobles had died in the church. Inside the house of God. Their blood had stained the stone floor.
Aella closed his eyes for a moment. The image came back to him unbidden—Bjorn standing over the bodies, his sword still in his hand, his expression utterly calm. The screams. The chaos. The panic.
The king opened his eyes again.
Without gold, he couldn't pay his soldiers. He couldn't reward the men who had stayed loyal to him. He was a king with no resources, no leverage, and no way to enforce his will.
And everyone knew it.
He could see it in the way his men looked at him now. With doubt and hesitation. They obeyed him still, but the certainty was gone.
He had lost everything a king needed to rule. His prestige and authority. And his ability to inspire fear or loyalty. All of it had been stripped away in a single transaction.
He needed allies. And he needed them quickly.
Mercia, perhaps. Or Wessex. Maybe both, if he could manage it. He would need to make promises, offer concessions, negotiate alliances he wouldn't have considered before. He would need to humble himself before other kings and beg for their support.
The thought made his stomach turn, but he had no choice.
Aella turned his head and looked at his daughter.
She was standing a short distance away, wrapped in a cloak. Her face was pale. Her eyes were distant, staring at nothing. She hadn't spoken much since they'd brought her back. She moved like someone who was only half-present, as though part of her was still somewhere else.
"Are you tainted by those heathens?" Aella asked.
The words came out harsher than he'd intended. He hadn't meant for them to sound like an accusation, but they did.
His daughter's head snapped toward him. For a moment, she just stared at him. Her expression was unreadable. Then something shifted; disbelief, maybe, or hurt, or anger. Aella couldn't tell.
"No," she said. Her voice was flat and cold.
Aella nodded slowly. He believed her. Or at least, he wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her.
Because if she was untainted, she could still be married. She could still be used to secure an alliance. She was still valuable.
It was time to arrange a marriage. Soon. Before rumors spread. Before anyone questioned her virtue or his ability to protect his own family.
But more importantly, it was time to hunt the Northmen.
He gave the orders and his men began preparing to march. They would track down the other Northmen group and they would kill them. Take their ships. Show the kingdom that King Aella was still strong and capable, and still in control.
Within a few hours, they received word. The Northmen were seen.
Aella gathered his men and rode out immediately.
But when they arrived, the village was already destroyed. The houses were still smoldering. Bodies lay in the streets. The Northmen were long gone.
Again. Again. Again.
Aella stood in the center of the ruined village and said nothing. His men waited behind him, silent.
He couldn't tell anymore how many times the Northmen had slipped away before he could reach them.
He was always too slow. Always one step behind.
That night, Aella lay in his tent and stared at the darkness above him. He couldn't sleep.
He kept thinking about Bjorn. About the ships disappearing over the horizon. About the empty treasury. About the nobles bleeding out on the church floor. About his daughter's hollow eyes.
He kept thinking about the men who had followed him into battle and watched him fail. The men who were beginning to doubt him. The men who might not follow him much longer.
He thought about rebellion.
It could happen. Soon. Maybe within months. The nobles who had lost family members in the church would be furious. The ones who had seen him empty the kingdom's coffers would question his judgment. The ones who had lost faith in his ability to protect them would start looking for alternatives.
They might try to replace him. Or worse, they might try to kill him.
Aella lay awake in the dark, listening to every sound outside his tent. Every footstep. Every murmur of conversation. Every creak of leather or scrape of metal.
He started sleeping with a knife under his pillow.
He stopped eating food unless someone else tasted it first.
He trusted fewer and fewer people. He stopped meeting with groups of nobles. He stopped making public appearances unless absolutely necessary.
The fear grew slowly, like something creeping up from the ground. At first it was just caution. Then it was vigilance. Then it was suspicion. Then it was paranoia.
He sent word to his brother. Told him to come to the Eoforwic. Told him to bring his men and stay close. He needed someone he could trust and who had no reason to betray him.
For now, that would have to be enough.
For now, he would hold on to power by his fingernails and wait for the moment when he could strike back.
But every day, the weight of what had happened pressed down harder.
-x-X-x-
After three days at sea, Bjorn saw it.
The dark shadow of land on the horizon. Home.
He had been standing at the prow of the lead ship for the past hour, watching that shadow slowly take shape. Behind him, he could hear his men beginning to stir.
The usual sounds of the ship—the creak of wood, the snap of the sail, the splash of water against the hull were joined now by voices. They were quiet at first, then they grew louder.
Someone close to him laughed.
Bjorn turned his head slightly and looked back at them. His men were smiling. All of them. Even the ones who rarely smiled were grinning like boys who had just gotten away with stealing honey cakes from the kitchen.
He understood why.
They had been calculating. Doing the math in their heads over and over again during the journey back. Dividing the treasure. Counting their shares. Figuring out what they could buy with it.
It was an amount that kingdoms accumulated over generations. An amount that monasteries hoarded for decades. An amount that represented the wealth of entire regions.
But Bjorn knew something his men hadn't fully realized yet. This kind of sudden wealth changed people.
And it changed how others looked at you.
Happiness and envy were always close companions. When men suddenly became this wealthy, others noticed.
And some of those others would not be happy. Some would be jealous. Some would be resentful. Some would start thinking about how to take what they had.
He would need to be careful. To watch. To make sure the celebration didn't turn into something darker.
But for now, he let them smile.
The shadow on the horizon grew clearer.
The watchtowers perched on the high points. The narrow entrance that made Kattegat almost impossible to attack from the sea.
Almost.
He loved fjords. They were nature's fortresses. A handful of men at the entrance could hold off an entire fleet. The steep walls funneled attackers into a kill zone. And the watchtowers gave advance warning of any approach.
This was why the Northmen built their settlements in places like this. Because they could be defended and easily held.
As the ships drew closer, Bjorn saw the wooden barriers at the entrance—thick logs chained together that could be raised or lowered to block the passage. But the barriers were already open. Someone in the watchtowers had seen them coming and recognized their ships.
Bjorn saw smoke rising from the towers. Signal fires. They were letting the town know that the raiders were returning.
All eight ships passed through the entrance without slowing. The water inside the fjord was calmer, protected from the wind and waves of the open sea. The ships glided smoothly now, moving in a line toward the harbor.
Kattegat came into view.
The wooden docks. The longhouses with their thatched roofs.
And the people.
They were already gathering at the harbor. Dozens of them. Men and women and children, all moving toward the docks to see what they had brought back this time.
This was always how it went. Bjorn usually returned with maybe two hundred pounds of silver. Which was a huge amount in itself.
But this time was different.
This time he had brought back sixteen times that amount.
He could feel the pressure now.
He had raised the bar so high that it might never come down.
Set a new expectation that might be impossible to meet again. Now, every time he sailed out, people would be hoping for another haul like this one. Waiting for him to do it again. And again. And again.
It was a heavy thing, expectation. It pushed down on you. Made you feel like you couldn't afford to fail. Made you feel like anything less than perfection would be a disappointment.
But Bjorn didn't flinch away from the feeling. He let it sit there in his gut and acknowledged it.
This was part of being a leader and a king. You carried the weight of other people's hopes.
And you carried the responsibility of living up to what they believed you could do.
And in a strange way, he liked it. It reminded him that he was alive and that people were counting on him.
The ships reached the docks and men threw ropes to the waiting crowd, who tied the vessels in place. The gangplanks were lowered. And then the unloading began.
Bjorn's men started carrying the chests down from the ships.
The first chest came down the gangplank. The men set it down on the dock with a heavy thud that seemed to echo across the harbor.
Then the second chest. Then the third.
The crowd had been chattering excitedly, but now they started to go quiet. They were counting. And now they beginning to realize that something was different this time.
Fourth chest. Fifth. Sixth.
People were pressing closer now, trying to see. Trying to understand what they were looking at.
The pile was growing. And the chests kept coming.
Someone in the crowd said something in a low voice. Bjorn couldn't hear the words, but he heard the tone. Disbelief.
Fifteenth chest.
The crowd had gone completely silent now. They just stood there, staring, as chest after chest was hauled off the ships and added to the growing pile on the dock.
People even lost count at this point.
One of the younger men started to laugh, but it came out strange. Not really amused. More like he didn't know what else to do with the feeling building in his chest.
Some of the chests had their lids open, revealing piles of silver coins that caught the light.
A woman near the back of the crowd gasped. She had caught sight of the contents of one of the open chests and was clutching her husband's arm, pointing.
But the closed chests fascinated them even more. Those ones sparked the imagination. If the open chests contained this much wealth, what could be hidden inside the closed ones?
People were starting to murmur now.
Low voices, filled with awe and disbelief, spread through the crowd.
"How much is there?"
"I've never seen..."
"Is that all silver?"
"How many places did they raid?"
"That's not possible..."
Some older men who raided in their youth, couldn't believe what they were seeing. Their eyes were wide. They looked almost frightened by the amount of wealth being unloaded.
People in the crowd were starting to realize the scale of what they were seeing.
This was something that would be talked about for generations. This was the kind of wealth that appeared in legends and saga tales.
The unloading finally stopped. The last chest was set down on the dock with the same heavy thud as the first.
For a long moment, nobody moved or spoke. The crowd just stood there, staring at the mountains of chests piled on the dock.
Bjorn could see them trying to process it.
All of them never held five pounds of silver in their entire lives.
An older woman near the front finally broke the silence. Her voice came out as barely more than a whisper, but in the quiet it carried.
"The gods themselves must have guided you."
That broke the spell.
Suddenly the crowd erupted with a roar that seemed to come from all of them at once. People were shouting. Some were laughing that same strange, breathless laughter that came from not knowing how else to react.
Children were jumping up and down, caught up in the energy even if they didn't fully understand what was happening.
"King Bjorn! King Bjorn! King Bjorn!"
They surged forward. Hands reached out from everywhere; clapping him on the shoulders, on the back, gripping his arms. Old men who had lived through decades of raids were looking at him with something close to reverence. Young warriors were staring at him like he was something more than human.
A woman pushed through the crowd and actually knelt in front of him. Just dropped to her knees on the dock and looked up at him with wide eyes. Her husband tried to pull her back up, but she didn't seem to notice him.
"You've blessed us all," she said. Her voice was shaking. "You've blessed all of Kattegat."
Bjorn felt uncomfortable with that. He reached down and took her arm, helping her to her feet. She was still staring at him like he had performed some kind of miracle.
The crowd was pressing in from all sides now. More people were kneeling. Others were reaching out just to touch him, as if contact with him might bring them luck.
The noise was overwhelming—dozens of voices all trying to speak at once, to thank him, to praise him, to express feelings they didn't have words for.
Bjorn looked past them, toward his men who were still coming off the ships.
The crowd had spread out to greet them too, but the reception was different.
Intense.
Almost frantic.
Men who would normally get a simple nod or a handshake were being embraced like heroes. Women were touching their husbands' faces with trembling hands, as if making sure they were real. Children were being lifted onto their fathers' shoulders and held tight.
Some of his men looked overwhelmed. They had expected celebration, but not like this. With this much intensity.
Then Bjorn saw movement at the edge of the crowd.
A small figure was running toward him. Tiny legs pumping as fast as they could. A toddler with messy hair and a determined expression.
Ubbe. His little brother. He was a prince now.
The crowd parted to let him through, people stepping aside automatically to make way for Ragnar's son and Bjorn's brother.
Bjorn felt something warm move through his chest, cutting through all the chaos and noise around him. He watched the boy run, wobbling slightly but refusing to slow down, his arms pumping at his sides.
One day, Ubbe would be big enough to fight beside him. One day, Bjorn would teach him everything he knew, and together with all his future brothers, they would be unstoppable.
But that day was still years away. For now, Ubbe was just a small boy who could barely run in a straight line. And his other brothers were still in Ragnar's balls.
The toddler crashed into Bjorn's leg and wrapped both arms around it, hugging tight. His face was split by a huge smile.
Behind him, walking at a more measured pace, came Gyda and Lagertha. Gyda held her mother's hand, moving gracefully even though Bjorn could see her fighting not to laugh at something. Lagertha's face was calm, but her eyes were moving across the scene, taking everything in, analyzing.
She was to give pregnant this year.
Bjorn looked down at the little boy clinging to his leg.
"Your hair?" Ubbe asked, staring up at Bjorn's bald head with wide, curious eyes.
"I exchanged it for a lot of treasure," Bjorn said, keeping his voice serious. "Look."
He gestured toward the mountains of chests surrounding them.
Ubbe's attention shifted immediately, his head whipping around to follow Bjorn's hand.
His eyes went huge. His mouth fell open.
For a moment he didn't say anything. He just stared. Even at his age, even without understanding numbers or value or what any of it meant, he could sense that what he was looking at was something extraordinary.
"Treasure!" he finally shouted, his voice high and excited. "So many treasure!"
He pointed at the chests with both hands now, bouncing on his toes. Then, without waiting for anyone to respond, he started talking again, the words tumbling out faster than before.
"I fight too! When I big! I bring treasure too! Big treasure! Like you!"
He kept going, jumping around Bjorn's legs now, too excited to stand still. Something about Bjorn making the western men run away. Something about wanting to see Bjorn's sword. Something about sailing on a ship.
The words were coming out so fast that half of them were getting tangled together.
Bjorn let him talk for a moment, then reached down and gently turned the boy toward where Ragnar stood at the edge of the crowd.
"Your time will come, champion," he said. "Go greet father."
Ubbe looked torn between staying with Bjorn and running to Ragnar. But the pull of their father won out. He took off running again, his little legs carrying him across the dock, weaving between the chests of treasure and people.
Bjorn straightened and turned to face Lagertha.
She didn't say anything at first. She stepped forward and put her hands on his arms, her touch firm but gentle. She looked him over carefully, checking for injuries, for signs of harm. Her eyes moved across his face, down his arms, taking inventory.
When she finished, she smiled slightly. He was unharmed. He had come home safe.
Her gaze lingered on his bald head for a moment. He could see the question in her eyes. But she didn't ask. She trusted that he would explain when he was ready.
Then she turned back to look at the treasure.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she finally said. "All this from one raid. The gods favored you."
"Then we must thank them properly," Bjorn replied.
Lagertha nodded, her expression becoming more serious. "We must prepare sacrifices."
Bjorn looked at her. "We must prepare something better than just sacrifices."
She turned back to him sharply, her brow furrowing. She studied his face, trying to understand what he meant, and to read the meaning behind his words.
But his expression gave nothing away. His face was calm, revealing nothing.
Lagertha's eyes narrowed slightly. She kept searching his face for a clue, but found none. She looked frustrated; Lagertha didn't like not understanding things. Especially then unexpected ones.
Finally, Gyda spoke.
"Welcome back, brother," she said, her voice warm and genuine. "I'm glad you are home."
But Bjorn could see her shoulders shaking. She was trying desperately not to laugh at his bald head.
Bjorn shook his head, turned to look at his men scattered across the dock.
Floki was talking with Helga, his hands moving as he told her some story—probably exaggerating wildly about the gods and all that. But Helga was staring past him at the treasure, her face showing the same shock everyone else's did.
Rollo stood with Siggy, one arm around her shoulders. He looked satisfied in a way Bjorn rarely saw—chest puffed out, chin high, enjoying the attention and praise.
Erik had found his wife and was embracing her, but she had pulled back and was touching his face, his arms, his chest, checking him over frantically.
And Ragnar had picked up Ubbe and set him on his shoulders. The boy was still talking—Bjorn could see his mouth moving nonstop—and Ragnar was listening with an amused expression.
Everyone looked happy.
Bjorn stood there and watched it all. He felt satisfaction settle in his chest.
But he also thought about the Three thousand two hundred pounds of silver.
How do you follow that?
Lagertha's voice pulled him back.
She had been looking at the men coming off the ships, counting them, checking faces. Now she turned back to him, and her expression had shifted to something else. Confusion. Maybe concern.
"Are your men all present?" she asked carefully. "Or did you lose only a few of them?"
Bjorn laughed.
"We didn't lose anyone," he said. "Not even one person was harmed."
The people standing close enough to hear him went quiet.
Lagertha's mouth opened slightly. She stared at him.
"Not one?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Not one," Bjorn confirmed.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
Because that was impossible. Everyone knew it was impossible. You couldn't raid the west, extract this much treasure, and return without losing anyone. It couldn't be done.
But Bjorn had done it.
Lagertha looked like she wanted to ask a dozen questions. How had he managed it? What strategy had he used? What had happened there? But she pressed her lips together and waited.
"I'll tell you everything once we reach the hall," Bjorn said.
She nodded slowly, accepting this.
"Move the chests to the hall," he called out to his men.
The crowd followed without being asked. The entire town seemed to be moving as one, drawn toward the hall by curiosity and excitement and disbelief and the promise of a story that would be told for generations.
Children ran ahead, laughing and playing, their excitement contagious.
People kept staring at the chests being carried past them. Kept trying to count them. Kept whispering to each other in voices filled with awe.
-x-X-x-
Couple days later.
Outside the Great Hall, the courtyard had been transformed.
Long wooden tables stretched across the open space. They were simple tables—rough-hewn planks laid across sawhorses, nothing elaborate or decorated.
But there were so many of them. Row after row, arranged in a broad semicircle that faced the Hall's entrance. Enough seating for what seemed like the entire town.
People were still arriving. Streaming up the path from the lower parts of Kattegat, drawn by the smell of roasting meat and the sound of voices already gathering. They came in groups—families walking together, warriors clapping each other on the back, children running ahead and then circling back to their parents.
The sun was sinking lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and deep red. But fires had been lit. Large fire pits had been dug around the perimeter of the gathering space, and flames were already crackling, throwing warm light and dancing shadows across everything.
Near one of the fire pits, several large boars were turning on spits, their skin crackling and dripping fat into the flames below. Men stood nearby with long knives, waiting to carve the meat once it was ready. There were also sheep, chickens, fish laid out on wooden boards.
The sounds were building. The crackle of fire. The sizzle of meat. The low murmur of conversation as more people found their places at the tables. The occasional laugh. The scrape of benches being pulled back. The hollow thunk of cups being set down on wood.
Bjorn stood near the entrance to the Hall, watching it all come together.
His men had already taken their seats at the tables closest to the Hall—the places of honor. They were talking amongst themselves.
Some were already drinking, though the feast hadn't officially begun. Others were still too caught up in the reality of what had happened to do much besides sit and stare at nothing in particular.
Each of them had received their share earlier. Bjorn had overseen the division personally, making sure it was done fairly, making sure every man got exactly what he had earned.
Eleven pounds of silver per man.
Bjorn had watched their faces as they received it.
Eleven pounds of silver was more than most of these men made in five years of raiding. Maybe ten years. It was enough to change a life.
Bjorn himself had taken nine hundred and sixty pounds.
He had it stored in the Hall now. Once he starts his plans. They will disappear very fast.
The gold had not been distributed. Normally, a jarl would melt it down and forge arm rings—golden bands that would be given to warriors and supporters who had shown exceptional loyalty or performed great deeds. It was a way of binding men to you. Of showing favor and of building a network of obligation and honor.
But in this case, there was no point.
Bjorn and Ragnar had done most of the work.
So the gold sat in the Hall, still in its original form. Waiting for a purpose that Bjorn hadn't yet decided on.
More people were arriving now. The tables were filling up. Not just the raiders and their families, but everyone.
Bjorn had made it clear that this was a feast for the entire community. Not just for the men who had sailed with him. Everyone was invited. Everyone was welcome.
He knew he couldn't escape politics, no matter how strong he was.
The courtyard was nearly full now. Hundreds of people seated at the long tables, with more standing at the edges or sitting on the ground. Children were already weaving between the benches, too excited to sit still.
Women were helping to carry food and drink from the Hall's stores to the tables. Men were greeting each other loudly, their voices carrying across the space.
Bjorn walked slowly toward the central table—the one directly in front of the Hall's entrance where he and Ragnar would sit. Lagertha was already there, standing behind her seat, watching the crowd with calm, assessing eyes.
Gyda stood beside her. Ragnar was holding Ubbe, who was squirming and pointing at everything.
As Bjorn approached, people noticed.
By the time he reached his seat, much of the courtyard had gone quiet, watching him.
He didn't sit yet. He stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle, letting people see him.
Then he reached for the cup that had been placed at his seat—a simple drinking horn, nothing fancy. He lifted it and held it up, his eyes sweeping across the crowd.
"Freemen," he said. His voice was strong, clear, carrying across the courtyard. "We have achieved something never seen before in our world."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "Something no one dreamed of before."
The crowd erupted. "Yeah!"
People were on their feet, cheering, shouting, banging their fists on the tables. The wooden planks shook from the impact. Cups rattled. Some people were whistling. Others were just yelling wordlessly, releasing energy that had been building.
Bjorn waited. He stood there with his cup raised, not moving, letting them express what they needed to express.
The cheering went on for a long time. Longer than he had expected. It rolled across the courtyard in waves, growing louder, then softer, then louder again as different groups picked it up.
Finally, slowly, it began to die down and people started to sit. The banging on tables became sporadic, then stopped. The voices quieted to a murmur, then to silence.
Bjorn was still standing, still holding his cup.
He looked at the people who raided with him.
But then he looked past them, to the other tables. To the people who hadn't raided with him. The farmers and craftsmen and families. The ones who worked the land, who kept Kattegat running while the warriors were away.
He looked at everyone.
"Drink, all of you," he said. His voice was still strong, but there was something else in it now. Something warmer. "Tonight we celebrate what we took together."
He paused again, making sure they were listening.
"Not only for the strong, but for every honorable hand that works the land."
There was a moment of surprised silence.
Bjorn raised his cup higher.
"Skål," he said.
The word hung in the air for a heartbeat.
Then everyone moved at once. All across the courtyard, people rose to their feet. Cups and horns were lifted high. The benches scraped against the ground. The sound of hundreds of people standing together created a rustling wave of movement and noise.
Silence fell again as they held their drinks up.
Then someone shouted from one of the back tables.
"To Bjorn!"
The crowd picked it up immediately.
"To Bjorn!"
"Skål!"
"May your raids never fail!"
"King Bjorn!"
"Skål!"
The voices overlapped, creating a chaotic chorus that filled the evening air. And then they drank.
Bjorn brought his cup to his lips and drank. The ale was cold and bitter. He could feel it burning down his throat, settling warm in his stomach.
Around him, everyone else was drinking too. Some drained their cups in one long pull. Others took careful sips. Many spilled ale down their fronts or onto the ground, too caught up in the moment to pay attention.
When Bjorn lowered his horn, the courtyard had erupted again into noise.
Laughter. Shouting. The clatter of cups being refilled. The scrape of benches as people settled in.
Bjorn finally sat down.
The meat was being brought to the tables now.
Bjorn took a piece of meat from the platter in front of him. It was hot enough to burn his fingers slightly, but he didn't care. He bit into it and tasted salt and fat and the char from the fire. It was good. Simple, but good.
Beside him, Ragnar was trying to get Ubbe to sit still long enough to eat something, but the boy was too excited. He kept trying to climb onto the table to see better, or to grab things that were out of his reach, or to point at something across the courtyard that had caught his attention.
Bjorn's eyes moved across the crowd, taking it all in.
Then he saw Athelstan.
The monk was seated at one of the middle tables, not far from where Floki sat. He had food in front of him, but he wasn't eating much. Seated beside him was the stonemason. The latter was no longer afraid after meeting Athelstan.
Bjorn could see beneath the neutrality that Athelstan kept on his face. He had spent enough time around Athelstan to read him. He was conflicted. Deeply conflicted.
Bjorn watched him for a few more seconds.
Part of him wanted to walk over there. To talk to Athelstan. To ask him what he was thinking. To try to ease whatever internal struggle he was going through.
But he didn't move.
Athelstan needed to deal with this alone. Needed to work through his emotions and thoughts without someone trying to guide him or comfort him or tell him what to feel. This was something the monk had to figure out for himself.
So Bjorn just watched for another moment, then turned his attention back to the feast.
-x-X-x-
Next day.
Bjorn looked at the paper in front him where his future projects were written, and he thought, 'Fuck. I'm broke. Again.'