Anno Draconis: Dawn of the Dragon (The Viking Saga of Litt Ormr)

By Steve Bivans

“Wine saves lives,” Sigurd said. “Other men’s lives.”“Ja! It does!” Olaf laughed, “Pass that pitcher back down here! Let us save the lives of a thousand men!”   885 A.D.A Dark Monk haunts the Land of the Franks.The Viking Sigurd seeks vengeance...Will he find justice?Will all the world burn in his wake?Can Sister Katharine save her children from the wreck of war?Will Roger save the Kingdom? Or his Home?Can young Willie and his dog, Iggy, save Roger?Who is Brother Reignold? And why does he wander the land? Will the muderous Magnus reap what he has sown?From the author of the best-selling non-fiction book, Vikings, War and the Fall of the Carolingians, comes the sweeping epic saga of Sigurd, Litt Ormr (little dragon), a young man driven from his homeland on a quest for vengeance and justice. Destiny propels him. Doom awaits him. Mystery hounds him.A tale of murder and war, revenge and redemption. A world where magic slumbers in words and in the bones of the earth. Where dreams and reality are forged in the fires of War. Anno Draconis, Dawn of the Dragon, Book One, Part One of the Draconis series is an historical fiction novel set in 885 A.D., in medieval France amidst the crumbling remains of the Frankish Empire. While the flaccid descendants of Charlemagne squabble over table scraps, pagan Northmen ravage the land and its people with sword, axe, and torch: pillaging a path toward the gates of Paris.Anchored in solid history, woven with elements of magical realism, horror, suspense and mystery, a story of intense emotions and sweeping conflict, seeking to solve the timeless mystery:      Who, or What, is the Dragon? If Bernard Cornwell’s Uhtred, Stephen King’s Roland the Gunslinger, Kung Fu’s Caine, and Tolkien’s Strider all met in the Green Dragon, drank themselves to oblivion and spent the night, their love-child would be Sigurd Hrolfsson, Litt Ormr...If you believe in the magic of language.If you are certain evil walks the Earth.If you search for dragons among us.Then you want this book!Plus, Vikings!What in Midgard are you waiting for?    Scroll back up and click BUY NOW!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bivans
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463850657

Steve Bivans

Steve Bivans, M.A., A.B.D., is the best-selling author of Vikings, War, and the Fall of the Carolingians; Be a Hobbit, Save the Earth; The End of Fear Itself; and A Ghost of an Idea.He is a Ph.D. candidate in medieval history at the University of Minnesota, and an expert on military history from the Bronze Age through the Middle Ages, with a focus on the Vikings in France.When not writing he spends most of his time eating roasted meats, drinking beer, and throwing axes in his backyard in Saint Paul, Minnesota, where he lives with his editor & partner, Patience Felt, his step son Duke, Bubble the dog, and two Viking-Pirate kitties: Punkin’ and Squish.

Book preview

(Sins of the Past)

Anno Domini, DXL, Sacred Monastery of the God-Trodden Mount

"For my sins, Sister, there shall be no absolution."

I see.

No. You do not. But that is because my story is in shadow.

Are not all stories such before their telling?

Yes, he said in answer, but in darkness, demons dwell.

Sister Maria gazed deep into his eyes. She could see no evil.

Let us start at the beginning, then. Who are you?

That is an eternal question, he answered, I have not found the answer.

"What, then, do people call you?"

"That is simpler. Many things have I been named, as names are rarely chosen. They are bestowed upon the witless and unwilling."

"What shall I call you?" Sister Maria said with a countenance of kindness and a twinge of frustration.

You may call me Kana.

The Sister’s eyes narrowed. Concern washed over her face. She reached up to tuck a loose hair under her wimple. I think I would choose another. It is not a good Christian name.

Kana turned and stared off to some distant point in the chapel. Maria suspected to some distant point in the past, long past, or some distant land, far, far away.

He did not turn back to her, only whispered, I am not a good Christian.

Who are you, little one? a whisper in the trees.

Was it the wind? Or was it a man?

I am Sigurd, son of Hrolf, he whispered back.

He stood in a dark forest, trees close around him. There were no birds singing, no crickets chirping.

But for the whisper of the wind, and the voice, it was silent.

He was only ten winters, terrified, but loathe to show it. He swallowed his fear as his father had taught him to do. "Fear is for the weak, my sonr…"

The sun was overhead but its light strained to reach the forest floor, littered with ancient leaves, rotting like so many skins of the dead. His feet made little sound as he crept forward. There was a clearing ahead, sun streaming upon it, like a bolt of lightning. It illuminated an old barn, a shieling of a sort. Though it was not in the mountains3, it looked like a shieling. He could just make it out through the underbrush choking off the path to the clearing. He drew his seax and hacked his way through.

Stepping into the space, the sun beat down upon him, a great, hot hammer beating upon his head. A black shadow passed over the clearing. An icy wind twisted the treetops.

His heart stopped for a moment; it sank into his boots and an overwhelming sense of dread, of weight, of sorrow and sadness swept over him. With it, the scent of death. His knees would no longer hold him. He felt as ancient as the mountains, rooted to the earth, unable to move. He struggled with the feeling, willed his legs to move. I must reach the shieling and hide! As he strove forward, he could not resist a glance upward. Fear shot through his veins like burning ice. The great shadow passed over the clearing in the shape of an enormous bird, screaming and screeching as it went. Fire, burning, and death in its wake.

From inside the shieling, inferno. And the screams of the dying…

Sigurd sprang from his bed along the wall. I was dreaming…?

But the screaming continued. Signe? He could hear his sister. Smoke! He leapt from his bed. Fire! The entire hall was alight. The roof in the center was roaring.

Móðir! Faðir! Fire! he screamed. He coughed. The smoke was thick, he could not see his sister, but she was coughing now, no longer screaming. Signe! he yelled through the smoke. As he did, a beam from the roof collapsed next to him sending up sparks and smoke. Hot coals rained down upon his head. His hair grew hot. He beat upon his head and they went out. The smoke was so thick he could not breathe. He dropped to his knees and crawled toward the stofa at the end of the hall, where his parents slept. All was ablaze in that direction. He had been spared the worst. Where he and Signe slept was not yet on fire, but the roof was aflame.

Must get them out! he screamed in his own head. Signe! She did not answer.

When he reached the entrance to the stofa, he felt someone on the floor.4 It was his sister. He shook her, but she did not answer. Must get her out! he thought, but what about Móðir? Faðir? He crawled through the door into their room. The walls were on fire already. The roof showered sparks down upon them in their bed closet and upon his own head. Why are the doors open? Why are they not awake? He crawled to them, coughing, it was so hard to breathe and the heat scorched his face, his arms, his hands, and feet. He knew he must get out, but he could not leave his family. He reached the bed closet, pulled himself to his feet, screaming over the roaring fire, "Móðir! Faðir! Fire! Wake up!"

But they did not move. In the blazing light of the burning house he could see them clearly. They were already dead, soaked in blood. They stared at him, but there was no life in their gaze, only a reflection of the dragon’s flame.

Signe! He remembered his sister.

Racing through the door of the stofa he heard a great Crack! somewhere above. His eyes shot upwards to see the center beam split and fall. Signe! was his only thought. He threw his body over her tiny form just as the flaming weight came down upon him.

All was dark.

XXV Juli, Anno Domini, DCCCLXXXV

Sister Katharine woke.

The sun was just below the horizon in the East. The sky a deep crimson as the light bathed the stone walls in a reddish hue.

"Red sky at dawn, the Devil’s marching on" she thought.

Then she laughed. Mother Agnes had never lacked for such heartwarming rhymes.

Mother Agnes, the Devil isn’t in the sky!

Satan is everywhere, my love. Say your prayers and come to breakfast.

And she would do just that.

She knelt down by her cot and recited the familiar prayer again.

Our Father, who art in Heaven…

She crossed herself, kissed her prayer rope, and washed her face in the basin by the bed.

Then she squatted over her pot and tossed it out the window.

"Gardez l'eau!" she exclaimed as the contents hit the stone street below. Luckily, there were no passers-by this time of the morning.

"We could use some rain to wash that away, she thought. Maybe I should have mentioned that in my prayer?" She laughed again.

Sister Katharine was a happy nun. Unlike Mother Agnes, who was likely forced into the convent by a disapproving father or brother. Maybe she was pregnant!? she and her other nun friends would muse.

"I just think she was born an old crab," Sister Rose once guessed, and as far as anyone could tell, she was.

Katharine had seen troubles in her short lifetime, some of them disturbing and brutal. But in the convent she had found an inner peace.

She was even happier, now, since her relocation to the church of Saint Etienne to look after the young children of the parish. She missed her Sisters and friends in the convent, but life in Saint Etienne was quiet and ordered. It was a small village only a few miles south of the great city of Rodomo.5 There was always the threat of northmen returning to the area. News of their murderous destruction up north had reached them in the last few years. They were back from a long campaign across the channel, but had not yet come south to the Sequannus6.

Katharine placed her wimple on her head, tucked her dark locks underneath, opened the sturdy wooden door, and strolled to the chapel kitchen for breakfast with Father Hugh.

The father was an old man. How old? No one knew, probably not even the father himself. But old as he was, he was still sharp as a knife. Nothing got past Father Hugh.

Beautiful morning, Father. Katharine said in greeting.

Oui, I suppose it is. A red sky might spoil it for some.

You don’t believe in that old superstition, Father.

Non, of course not. Old wive’s tales are best left to old wives. But there are a few of those around here, he laughed.

Oui, there certainly are. Katharine agreed.

As the words left her mouth, there was a sharp knock on the door.

Katharine jumped up, took two steps to the oak door and swung it open.

Is the Father in? said a screechy, old woman.

Oui, Madame Ermengard, he’s right here, answered Katharine, Come right in.

A large, elderly woman in elevated peasant finery barged into the kitchen, nearly knocking Katharine to the floor. She was out of breath for no apparent reason. Her house wasn’t that far away.

Father! Did you see the sky this morning?! she asked between heavy breaths.

Father Hugh glanced at Katharine with his left eye. In it, she caught the glimmer of a smile, though his lips were pursed and the rest of his face remained sincere, but not serious.

I did, Madame, he answered, A beautiful crimson, was it not? What can I do for you this fine morning?

Hmmmph! she snorted, Fine morning, indeed! Red sky at dawn, the Devil’s coming on!

Apparently, every mother knows the phrase, Katharine thought to herself.

The Devil comes in all weather and in many guises, Father Hugh replied. Have you seen him in person this morning?

Now he’s just goading her, thought Katharine. Madame Ermengard’s face turned as red as the sky and she turned her eyes toward the ceiling, probably to gain control of her tongue and temper. The father glanced at Katharine and gave her a quick wink and the slightest smile. Katharine nearly laughed out loud. Madame Ermengard was notorious for her temper and superstitious nature. She would not take kindly to being mocked. So Katharine bit her tongue, feigned a frown, and put on her best ‘serious’ face.

"I have not seen him, Father! the fat lady returned. She was in a fit, almost shaking. But the sky is an evil omen and you know it is! Mark my words! Ill will come of it! You would be more useful in the chapel praying for the protection of this village than sitting here eating breakfast with this child!"

Madame, the Father replied in a calm voice of reassurance, I am unceasingly at prayer, even during breakfast, and even when interrupted by parishioners who are not. I will certainly say prayers for this village, as I always do, and I will make sure to say a special one for you, Madame, this Sunday in the Mass.

Hmmf! was all that she could say. She turned on her left heel and marched out the door as quickly as she had come in. Katharine managed to avoid being run over and closed the door behind the disgruntled woman as she stormed down the street, still mumbling something about devils, demons, and dragons… The rant trailed off as she went over the hill past the bakery.

Well! Katharine exclaimed, shall we finish our breakfast?

Indeed! said the Father.

They sat down to a hearty loaf with fresh butter, and wine.

As they finished the Father asked, How are the children doing, Sister?

Ohh, well, I suppose. Most of them.

Most? he raised an eyebrow. Is Willie giving you trouble again? he asked with a slight grin.

He is a challenge, for sure. Katharine conceded. Yesterday, I caught him arguing with his best friend.

Charles?

Oui.

What was that all about? the Father inquired, still perfectly calm.

Willie claims Charles insulted him. Something about his lack of shoes. I reminded him that most children don’t wear shoes in July. He said, Yeah, but Charles said I was nothing but a peasant!

"Of course, he is a peasant child, but so is Charles! Katharine continued her story. When I pointed that out to him, he said, ‘I know, Sister Kate, but I didn’t like the way he said it. So, I made him apologize to Charles, and Charles to him, and now I reckon they are friends again.

Sounds like you handled it superbly! said Father Hugh.

Merci! laughed Katharine. I do love the children. Even Willie.

That is evident, smiled the Father.

He rose and walked to the door where his robe hung on a peg. Katharine grabbed the right sleeve to help the Father into it. He had long ago suffered an injury of some kind to his right arm and as a result it did not bend so well.

Thank you for your help, Sister. You are a Godsend to me.

You’re welcome, Father. I’ll clean up here and see you in a while.

Father Hugh walked out the door, turned left and walked the hundred steps or so to the chapel of St-Etienne, for whom the entire village was named. Katharine closed the door and went to work cleaning and putting away the dishes.

I wonder if there is anything to that old wive’s tale? she thought. Then she put it out of her mind.

"Chunk!"

The ship’s bow hit the sand. There was little other sound than the calling of the morning gulls, the light clinking of mail, and the occasional clunk of an axe or sword on a shield.

Now! ordered Sigurd to his men, in an elevated whisper. In two waves, the men sprang overboard into the shallow surf of the shoreline, salt water splashing, weapons held high.

Move! Olaf whispered, and the men struggled their way out of the sand and water onto the beach.

Remain silent! Sigurd ordered, Remember we are trying to catch them sleeping! And do not kill them all! I have questions that need answering!

"Forputle! Olaf groaned, as he stood up in the water, massaging his right knee. Cursed Thor! His mother’s a hora!" Olaf, almost sixty winters old, was known for his colorful language.7 He was always cursing about something. "I’m getting to old for this skit!

Sigurd laughed, "Ja, you are! But you shall not be invited to the Great Feast sitting by the fire in your sod house, faðurbróðir!8

The group of thirty men formed a quick shield wall and began the climb up the beach to the small, stockade fortification just past the edge of the sand, standing in a large clearing. There were trees and hedges some hundred paces behind it, but none for a hundred or more on either side.

Before they reached the halfway point, they heard the alarm.

NORSEMEN! NORSEMEN! ARISE! ARISE!

Hel!, uttered Sigurd, Now! Attack!

The men sprang forward towards the stockade, spears forming a dangerous hedge in front of them.

Outpacing them all ran Rorik, brandishing a torch, "Burn, you oskilgetinns!"9

Get back here! yelled Olaf, You’re gonna get yourself killed!

Rorik ignored the order. He ran even faster. When he had reached to within twenty yards of the wooden stockade, he reared his torch backwards in an arc to launch it. Something whistled past his right ear. He tossed his flaming gift. It soared over the wall and landed on the thatched roof of a building just inside. The roof resisted, for a few seconds, then burst into flames.

Rorik turned to see the missile that had nearly impaled him, stuck deep in the sand.

Cursed Franks! he yelled, as another arrow grazed his shoulder and sank into the earth beside the first one. "Oskilgetinns!" he cursed, as he grabbed his bleeding shoulder, and turned.

Is that the best you can do? he taunted them. He saw a young man just above the wall, visibly shaken, attempting to fit another projectile to his bow string. Just as he did, a spear smashed into the would-be-archer’s ribcage, just below the heart and passed half way through his body. Blood exploded from the wounds in both directions as he disappeared behind the wall.

Ha! exclaimed Rorik, There’s more of that coming!

"Shut up, rasshøl! yelled Sigurd, as he caught up to Rorik, drawing his axe to replace the spear he had expended. You’ll wake up the dead!"10

Rorik turned to see his leader, and laughed.

Let them come, too! he boasted, I will burn them all!

Come on dogs! Sigurd yelled to the rest of his men, Get to work!

They rushed around the wall to the right, until they came to the gate. It was not impressive. Just short timbers, lashed together with ropes and bolted inside.

Guthrum! called Olaf.

The shield-wall parted and a giant strode through. Guthrum (all of six feet and five inches tall and many stones) carried a very large Danish axe, designed for felling trees.

In one motion, the big man brought the axe in a full circle and down on the center of the gate.

CRACK! The axe fell. The oak splintered and exploded in a shower of splinters. CRACK! It fell again, and the center of the gate and its bolt shattered. It swung open.

Shield wall! Sigurd barked. But it was too late for the first man in line. An arrow shot through the gaping gate, and lodged in his throat. His life’s blood shot from the wound, spraying the left side of Sigurd’s face as the man dropped to the sand. Odin be damned! Sigurd cursed, "Svinfylking!"11

The men snapped into a wedge formation.

Kill them all! Sigurd growled. The expression on his face had changed. The blood of the dying man had transformed him. The veins in his forehead were visibly pumping, his face went red. His eyes seemed to be pushed forward. They were glazed over. His jaw locked in a snarl. Sigurd was gone. Litt Ormr had come.

The men pushed into the fort. The entire thing could have been no more than fifty paces wide. In front of them were twenty or more men, mostly young men.

Feed the wolves! yelled Olaf.

One boy in the Frankish line pissed himself, dropped his spear and shield, and ran. He had managed only a few steps when his retreat failed. He fell with a spear in his back.

That one will be tasty! one of the norsemen yelled.

The rest of the Franks held their ground in a disorganized wall of shields and spears. Within seconds, Sigurd’s men crashed into them. The Franks’ undisciplined line was split in two. Guthrum, the anchor on Sigurd’s right, in one motion, stepped out and around the Frank in front of him and swept his enormous axe down. The poor man, who had obviously had some training in combat, raised his shield to parry the blow. It was not enough.

Under the blow his shield disintegrated in a shower of splinters. The poor man’s head exploded like an egg, blood and grey matter shot out in all directions.

The sight and sound was all that the rest of the dead man’s companions could take. All but one of them turned and ran.

STAND! their captain commanded, but the game was up.

As he turned to continue the fight, his head lost connection with his body. It flipped, end over end, before landing some feet away in a horse trough, the eyelids still blinking. The rest of his earthly form, slumped to the ground, still gripping his shield and sword, blood pulsing from his neck, staining Sigurd’s boots.

Cut them down! Sigurd growled like a rabid wolf.

His men broke ranks and into a chase.

The Franks were running for the back gate. At least half of them didn’t make it. Sigurd and his men cut them off and cut them down.

As the last man fell, Sigurd raced through the gate with the youngest members of his crew behind him. He outpaced them all. The remaining Franks were running for the road, north of the fort.

They’re running for horses! Olaf yelled from the rear, and stopped to catch his breath, bent over, hands on knees, sucking in the salt air. Thor’s Balls!, he gasped.

Sigurd caught up to two straggling Franks. The first fell from a blow to the shoulder that split him in half to the waist. His companion, pants soaked with his own urine, tripped, fell to the sand, and lost his head.

Schiiing! the blade rang, as it separated the vertebrae in his neck. Egil! yelled Sigurd, Shoot that man!

One of the Franks had reached a line of tethered horses between two trees. He managed to wrest one free and mount it bareback. He was attempting to reach the road when Egil’s bow rang out. Its deadly projectile hit the man in the small of his back. He dropped from the beast, landing on the side of his head, snapping his neck. Dark blood ran from his body and pooled on the ground, turning a patch of yellow dandelions into an island of gold in a sea of crimson.

"Prohibere!"12 yelled Sigurd to the last five or six fleeing Franks. All but one, obeyed his command. The one who persisted got an arrow for his trouble. Egil shot him through the throat, and he died, gasping for breath and calling for his mother.

Bring the prisoners, here! growled Sigurd.

His men rounded them up and pushed them down the beach to their leader.

Knees, dirty Frankish bastards! spat Olaf, in a broken Latin.

One of them had enough resistance left to raise his head and spit at Olaf ’s feet.

In an instant, Olaf ’s sword flashed out, slit the man’s throat, but left the head dangling backward, eyes wide open, blood spraying all over his companions, sputtering as he attempted to draw air into his lungs. His body and head hung in this macabre way for what seemed like an eternity, then fell backward into the sand, head first, forming a strange triangle between his knees, his head, and his windpipe which was sticking out of the gaping wound. Sigurd stepped forward and kicked the man in the side. The body rolled over and stopped jerking.

Anyone else need to spit? Sigurd queried the prisoners in Latin.

Silence.

That it is what I thought, he grunted.

Which one of you fatherless, sister-spoilers want to tell me if a messenger managed to leave here?

If one of them slipped our net, then we’re gonna be walking into a hornet’s nest in Rodomo, thought Sigurd.

"I don’t think so, Litt Ormr," said Olaf.

"I do not remember asking you, old man," his nephew scolded.

No one escaped, muttered what looked like the oldest of the prisoners, a young man of maybe twenty five winters. He was not speaking the Latin of the Franks, but the same Latin Sigurd had learned as a boy.

"You’ll address him as Dominus, you spineless dog!" barked Olaf.

"Dominus, no one escaped. We were all sleeping when you attacked," answered the man, with his head down, eyes firmly focused on the blood-stained sand at his knees.

Let’s hope you are not lying, maggot, grunted Olaf.

Ja, let us hope, said Sigurd, quietly. He spoke up, again, Where is Reignold of Frisia?!

No one answered.

You! Sigurd looked to the young Latin speaker. Where is Reignold?

I do not know this man.

Sigurd looked to Olaf.

Keep this one, he said in his native tongue, pointing to the one who had spoken, Tie him up to keep him from causing trouble.

What about the rest? Rorik asked.

"Drepiði þá. Drepiði þá allr," and he walked away toward the beach, as he spat blood on the ground in front of the prisoners.13

As he walked away, he could hear the pleas for mercy and the prayers and lamentations to a flaccid god, prayers that would not be answered. Then he could hear the ringing of swords and the sound of flesh and bone. He could smell the blood on his face, taste the iron in his mouth, smell the salt air blowing up the river.

"I will find him, and kill him. And anyone who gets in my way."

Thorskill is in Valhalla! Olaf yelled to his nephew, All the rest are kicking and breathing.

Thorskill was too young, I suppose. Sigurd returned.

Nei, said Olaf, he was just unlucky. When Odin winks at you, your day has come.

Ehh, said Sigurd. If you believe in the gods. I do not. Not anymore. They have abandoned me, if they ever did exist.

Phah! spat Olaf, What do young people know of the gods? You are angry with the world. The gods abandon no one. You should have sacrificed one of the prisoners to Thor or Odin! That would put things to right!

There are no gods here.

"You are a dangerous man, Litt Ormr. Taunting the gods and stealing their tribute. But you are my nephew and I am glad you’re on our side." He laughed.

Sigurd surveyed the beach. The sand was red with blood, and the crows and ravens were circling overhead.

"Thank you, faðurbróðir, he mumbled, after coming out of his battle stupor. It is like crimson mist in my mind."

What is? Olaf asked.

Battle, Sigurd answered.

Ja, it can be a bit foggy, added Olaf.

Sigurd struggled to put the pieces together. He could remember the sound of the ship hitting the sandy shoreline. He remembered Rorik and his stupid torch and killing the archer on the wall. He could recall everything, right up to the moment when the arrow hit Thorskill, the blood in his face. Then everything went red. It was a blur of violence.

Bring me the prisoners, said Sigurd to his uncle.

What prisoners? Olaf returned, with a strange look on his face, like his nephew had lost his mind or something.

The ones we just captured, old man! Sigurd yelled back, irritated.

"Litt Ormr, there’s only one left. You told us to kill the rest." His nephew sometimes lost track of events when his blood-rage was up.

What? Sigurd cocked his head to the side and looked at his uncle for a second, before the memory of the day returned. Olaf could see the realization in Sigurd’s expression. There was for a brief moment, a hint of sadness in the corner of the young man’s eyes. Then he blinked, and his face turned hard as stone, his jaw set.

Good, Sigurd said. Tell the men to gather their gear from the ship, any food that’s left in the garrison, and prepare to move out.

"Ja, Litt Ormr." Olaf turned away and strode up toward the fort.

Sigurd stood, alone, and took in the scent of the sea blowing up the river basin, and grinned.

The men did as ordered, then loaded much of the food and weapons from the garrison on the backs of several horses. Olaf and Sigurd chose the two best beasts, saddled them and mounted up. The rest of the crew fell in line behind them. The prisoner was lashed to the back of the final horse, with his hands in front, and followed along, head down, silent as the grave.

We must get to the road! ordered Sigurd, That is where the rest of the army will be waiting for us, unless they have run into more trouble than we.

Sigurd snapped his horse into motion and headed up the path.

Guthrum! Olaf yelled back at the giant, who was standing silently, carving notches into the handle of his axe, You too!

The giant seemed awoken from a dream. He looked up to see his friends marching off, smiled, then strode to catch up. As he caught up to the prisoner, he turned to him and spoke in a very broken Latin.

I Guthrum, he smiled at the man, you?

The young man seemed surprised and confused, but managed to answer.

I am Roger.

I’m a northman!

Children screamed.

Katharine rounded the corner of the church. There, standing on an old gravestone in the churchyard, was Willie, brandishing a large stick over his head, yelling at the top of his lungs, I’m a northman! I’m a northman!

Northmen are murderous cutthroats and heathens! screamed Charles.

Oh Lord, thought Katharine, What are they up to, now?

Boys! she said with firmness, without raising her voice. What is this all about?

Willie says he’s a northman, but real northmen are bloodthirsty heathens that eat babies and burn churches and drag off the women into bondage!

Oh my! said Sister Katharine, Where did you learn such things?

My mother told me! said Charles, with authority. And she never lies!

I’m a northman! I’ll burn your house down and drag your mother into bondage! yelled Willie from his stone longship.

Katharine was beginning to lose her composure.

Get down, Wilhelm! And drop that stick! She always used his given name when he was in trouble, which was often.

And I’ll eat your baby sister!! he yelled, figuring he had at least one more chance to get a word in before the wrath of Sister Kate came down upon him.

Katharine reached up, grabbed his left wrist and yanked him down off the headstone, sending him sprawling on the sandy soil and grass. He quickly bounced up and raised the stick one more time above his head, preparing to squeeze in one more pagan, northman-esque, exultation.

Wilhelm! she screamed, Put down that stick now!

The wind left the boy’s sails. His chin dropped to his chest and his arms went limp, dropping his deadly northman sword to the ground. He stood there, silent, moping.

Ha! Charles spat, You’re in trouble!

Charles! Katharine barked through clenched teeth. Charles went limp, like his friend, chin down, arms slack.

Come here, both of you! She turned to the other children, The rest of you go play!

The remaining village children, who had become increasingly interested in the northman drama, scuttled off to find another amusement. The nun grabbed the two boys by the wrist and lead them to a fallen tree behind the church, in the shade of another oak. It was getting warm already, that morning, the sun rising over the smaller houses and trees. The sound of bees and other insects buzzed in the air.

Sit down! she demanded. Both boys plopped down on the fallen trunk of what was once an ancient oak, the twin of the one shading them, now.

"Willie, why in the name of the Father, would you ever want to be a northman?! They are, indeed, very nasty creatures, and heathens with no culture, or religion. They are untrustworthy, unwashed, and headed for hell and damnation. What on Earth possessed you to make such a claim? ‘I’m a northman,’ I’m sure!"

Charles took a quick intake of breath. Katharine could tell by the look in his eye that he had something to say, but she had no interest in his testimony.

Charles she said, through clenched teeth, again, "I did not ask you."

Charles’s lips snapped together with some effort and a grunt, and his chin returned to its resting place on his chest. Katharine kept her right eye upon him, because she anticipated, and received, a second glimpse in his eye.

Ehh! was the only sound that escaped her mouth, a guttural noise, but Charles knew what it meant. Oh no you don’t! and he gave his second thought, and third thought, and sat still.

Well, Willie, why do you want to be a northman?

There was a long pause. He screwed up his face to aid his thought process, as if the sheer effort would conjure a suitable answer.

Well? she repeated.

Wellll, he stalled, I guess it’s ‘cause northmen get to do what they want?

It was more of a question than an answer, but at least it gave Katharine a line of inquiry.

Hmmm, she thought, So you don’t like rules?

Non! exclaimed Wilhelm, Rules are stupid!

He said it with such conviction it took a monumental effort to withhold her laughter. She swallowed hard to keep from showing any sign of humor, shook her head and said, Willie, rules exist to keep you and everyone else, safe. And some rules are given to us by God and his son, Jesus. Those rules should never be broken.

Well, I don’t like rules, he mumbled.

Me neither! agreed Charles.

Katharine shot a glance back to Charles, who quickly realized he’d just broken some unspoken rule, and that to do it again meant something dastardly. So he clammed up, again. This time for good.

Sometimes rules are hard to follow, it’s true, said Katharine, especially for young boys, but without them the world would collapse into chaos, and the Devil would rule. Do you want the Devil to rule the world, Willie?

The boy, naughty as he was, knew that nothing good came from the Devil, and this struck him deep.

"I didn’t really mean I was a northman, Sister Kate. I don’t want the Devil to rule! I just wanted to have fun instead of studying Latin!"

Katharine could no longer hold her emotions. She burst out laughing, tears streaming down her face as she laid her hands upon the two boys’s shoulders, who were now laughing, too. They all laughed for several minutes.

Oui, there are times that I do not want to study Latin, either. Katharine said, regaining control of her humor.

Really? Charles asked, in awe.

Oui, really, she said, some times I wish I could skip lessons, too.

Wow! said Willie, "I thought Latin was the only thing you ever thought about!"

She laughed again.

Not nearly little one, she said, I think about lots of things. Some of them are even fun!

"Can we do that instead of Latin, today?" asked Charles.

You know what? she asked, Why not!

Yaaaaay!!! the boys answered in chorus.

Come with me, she ordered, with a smile.

The boys jumped up from the trunk of the old oak, and trotted after their teacher, who was quickly walking towards the other children on the other side of the lawn.

Students! she yelled. Most of them stopped their play and turned to her, still chattering and laughing. We’re not going to study Latin, today.

Cheers and whoops errupted from the group, quickly followed by a barrage of questions, "What are we gonna do? Where are we going? Is it gonna be fun?"

Do we have to scrub the chapel floor? asked young Louis, who had been assigned the duty several times for pulling his sister, Louisa’s hair. What self-respecting parents would name their two children the same name? thought Katharine. She’d thought the question before.

She chuckled, Non, nothing so dreadful as that.

Everyone line up nicely! she commanded.

The children began, slowly, to form something that more or less resembled a line. It was pretty sloppy.

Come on now! barked Katharine, That’s not a line! Can someone here give me the definition of a line segment? This was something that every one of them should know from their geometry lessons.

I know, I know, I know! yelled Charles.

Good! said Katharine, Let’s hear it!

It’s a line that’s straight and not curvy? he answered with a question.

That’s a horrible answer, Charles she responded with a scornful face, tempered with a slight smile. She was in a good mood, and was determined not to allow her student’s lack of scholarship ruin it.

Anyone else?

It’s the shortest distance between two points! yelled little Julia, Willie’s little sister, who was only five years old, and cuter than kittens in a basket.

Oui! exclaimed Frances.

Yaaaay! yelled Willie, who picked up his little sister and spun her around in a victory dance. My sister is smarter than you, Charles!

She is indeed very smart, said Katharine, But it is not necessary to compare her to anyone else, Willie. She gave him a sharp look.

Oui, Sister Kate. He gave her a look of apology as he put his sister down.

Alright! Since we have a definition, can we demonstrate it, here and now? Katharine continued.

The students slowly but surely, and with great chatter and commotion, began to organize themselves into a line in front of the Sister.

When they were sufficiently lined up, or at least as close as young children were ever going to be, she gave the command to move.

Follow me! she ordered, and marched off to the rear of the church. We’re going down to the river!

Yaaaaay!! the children screamed, and fell into step behind her, more or less in a line segment.

She led them down to the river. They walked down stream for some time till they reached a place that Willie and Charles said was their favorite fishing spot. There the children played along the shore, throwing rocks into the water and skipping flat stones.

I can skip it all the way across! boasted Charles.

No you can’t! yelled Willie in challenge.

Sufficiently incensed, Charles picked up a sizable, flat rock and flipped it as hard as he could toward the other side. It skipped four or five times, but only made it a quarter of the way before disappearing below the surface.

Ha! yelled his friend, Told ya! Willie drew back his right arm, cocked his wrist, ran forward, and released his stone. It sailed a third of the way across the river before even touching the surface, then skipped five or six times before clunking into the side of a passing boat in the middle of the river, and dropped into the water.

Hey! the fisherman screamed, Watch what you’re doing, you little heathens! and went back to steering his boat down stream.

Great throw! Sister Katharine congratulated the boy, "But do pay attention to where you’re throwing, next time."

Oui, Sister.

She turned and went off to see what their fellow students were doing, leaving the two of them unattended.

Come on, Charles! Let’s go check out Old Man Raoul’s boat! said Willie.

The two boys ran off down the bank of the river, about a hundred paces, till they came upon an old rowboat moored to a tree stump.

We should take it out! said Willie.

"That’s stealing!" Charles pointed out.

Not really! We’d just be borrowing it for a while, and Roger has taken us out in it before, he continued, with a grin.

Yeah, I suppose that’s so. There’s no harm if we bring it back, right?

Yeah!

Willie untied the boat, and they were in the process of launching it from the sandy shore when they were caught.

Wilhelm! Charles! Katharine screamed down the riverbank, What in the name of Christ do you think you’re doing?! I’m gonna have to say a few Hail Marys for that breech of the Commandments, she thought to herself as the blood ran to her face. She broke into a run to reach the boys before they could push the boat all the way out.

But the tone of her voice held them firm in their spot. They knew, instantly, that they had been caught breaching the rules, again.

What do you think you’re doing? she asked in between breaths.