Estimated to be born at approximately 798 AD, Saint Benedicta of Scandinavia remains a controversial figure up to this day. Throughout the centuries she was considered a traitor, inspiration to Christians, an overrated political figure and a strong...
In the dim and smoky chamber of the seer, Ivar the Boneless sat, his eyes locked on the old seer, his voice a low, haunting chant.
"This time, the black will not bring darkness, but the blessed light," the seer said. "Although you will choose gold to chase it away, the bright stone will come to you and stay through your storm of blood and rage that will sweep through the land of England. Your heart shall know only hatred for the light, for it represents all that you despise. But that light will be impossible to put out, though many men will try to. The jewel is to be bestowed upon you soon, but will you know how to encase it?"
Ivar's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?" He said, not even trying to remain patient. "I will find jewels in England? Rob the Saxons from their gold? I already know that, it isn't a prediction."
The seer chuckled. "Ah, Ivar, your jewels will have a fight of their own. I shall not tell you, since then you will choose not to follow the fate."
Ivar grimaced in anger and was very happy the seer was blind and could not see him. Knowing he was about to split seer's head in half, he moved as fast as he could and left.
***
The English countryside hung beneath the pale, cold sky, and the biting chill of late autumn embraced the world outside. A hushed stillness draped over the land, and amidst the walls of the monastery's grand garden, nature seemed even bleaker. The weak sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays struggling to penetrate the stubborn veil of mist. Trees and shrubs had shed their leaves, flowers were dead, and only a few pots of herbs had now been brought from inside.
In the center, a nun named Mary stood surrounded by a group of children. With cold fingers, she plucked herb after herb from the pots, explaining their properties to the children, then giving the herbs to them to pass between themselves. Her voice was clear, and her posture was straight, the black habit gracefully hanging off her shoulders. Sister Mary's bright face was framed by a veil, with a white coif and cap. Despite the somber attire, her striking features drew the gaze of those who beheld her—bottomless black eyes, a sharp nose, and the wooden cross resting upon her black scapular. A lone crow cawed twice.
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She knew she had to hurry with the lesson as it was the Feast of All Saints, and the mass would be held soon. She would need to lead the children to the church and then back to their parents.
Suddenly, the voices of the other sisters, shrill with alarm, carried over the garden. Mary's heart lurched as more and more of the dread-filled shouts pierced the air. The heathens were coming. They had been moving through the country, and father Cynebert held mass every day to keep them away from the city. Sister Mary sprang into action: the city was surounded by walls, but there were passages, and screams were coming only from the direction of the main gate, so she quickly guided the wide-eyed children away, to the limits of York and pointed to the distant forests, hoping that the distance would provide safety. With each step, her heart ached for the people left behind, the town now engulfed by the storm of battle, which she did not dare to look at.
