Chapter 2. - Athelstan

The first words the man named Rollo speaks to him are "Get up".

Athelstan climbs to his feet, awkwardly - the ship is moving slightly beneath his feet and having his hands tied and clinging to the book at the same time doesn't exactly help.

"Give me that."

He looks up from where he's had his gaze fixed at the ship's planks and finds an outstretched hand in front of him, waiting impatiently - and Athelstan knows that he should just hand over the book, but he doesn't dare, not really. Not to Rollo. Not to this man, who might throw the book overboard as thoughtlessly as they did Brother Cenwulf…

Not for the first time it occurs to him that perhaps there has been some mistake, because surely - surely, if the true friend of his heart was to be found amongst these heathens, it would have been Ragnar, with his sharp eyes and his questions, and not…

And then he is ashamed, because what sort of a monk is he, to question the will of the Lord?

The book is pulled from his grasp, roughly, and it's all he can do to stop himself from trying to take it back as Rollo frowns at it and at him. Then he grunts and bends down to put it in the chest at his feet, and for a moment Athelstan feels something akin to relief - until Rollo straightens, a knife in his hand.

"Give me your hands."

When he doesn't immediately comply, Rollo makes an impatient noise and grasps his wrist - and there it is again, that feeling, dancing along his skin and deeper still, making his heart pound against his will.

"Stop squirming," and Athelstan wonders if it is different for the other man somehow, if that is how his hands can be steady as he slides the knife between skin and rope and cuts.

Rollo bends again to pick up his chest, then - not even wasting another word - he turns Athelstan around and pushes him towards the railing, where men wait to hand him up on the docks as if he was just another chest or barrel. He is left standing there, rubbing his sore wrists and watching helplessly as his brothers are pushed to the ground and leashed to wooden poles. He finds that he cannot meet their eyes, that he feels guilty at not being among them.

"Rollo." Ragnar's voice sounds over the general excitement. Rollo looks up from where he's been handing gleaming church silver up to men on the dock. "The Earl wants to see us."

Rollo grunts and climbs up on the dock. As he passes Athelstan, he reaches out and pushes him in front of him, stumbling into the crowd of people who parts before them, hands reaching out to touch his cowl and his shaven head as he passes, steared by Rollo's pushes until he spots Ragnar ahead and manages to follow in his wake.

The hall of the Earl is gloomy, lighted by smoky torches, and the man on the wooden throne looks distinctly displeased. Athelstan watches, quiet from his position half-hidden behind Rollo's broad shoulders, as Ragnar steps forward to brag of his raid.

"And you truly think that going on this raid to the West was by the will of the gods?!"

"I know it was, my lord."

"And how can you be so sure that you know the will of the gods?" and even though he is a stranger here, Athelstan can feel the tension rising.

"I know that the gods have given us riches - gold, silver, slaves - to show their good will. And I know that they Chose one of the English priests for my brother, Rollo. That's what I know of the will of the gods," and he gestures and Athelstan suddenly finds himself at the center of attention, Rollo pushing him in front of him and settling a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"That? That sorry little thing - is supposed to be your chosen, Rollo?"

"Yes, my lord." The woman on the second throne laughs and others follow, and the hand on Athelstan's shoulder tightens briefly, painfully.

"I don't think so," and the Earl turns his attention back on Ragnar. "I think that you disobeyed my orders and went west and now you are worried and rightly so. So you have taken one of those slaves, who is a foreigner and thus cannot contradict you, and you are pretending that he is your brother's Chosen, so that you will not be punished for disobeying me, your lord and chieftain. Is that not how it really is, Ragnar Lothbrok?"

"No, my lord, it is not. The gods are wise. To make sure that no one would doubt their choice, they chose a priest who already speaks our language."

"Is that so?" and once more the Earl's attention turns to Athelstan. "You. Come forward," and when Athelstan doesn't immediately move to obey, Rollo pushes him once more.

"So. You speak our language, do you?"

"Yes, my lord," and the Earl raises an eyebrow at that.

"And your name?"

"My name is Athelstan, my lord."

"And it is the truth, then, that the gods have chosen you for Rollo, the brother of Ragnar?" and there's so many things wrong with that sentence, except this doesn't seem like a wise place to raise any protest.

"I have that honour, my lord."

"Well," and the Earl leans back, waving him away, and Athelstan hurries back to the relative safety of Rollo's shadow, " - well, at least he seems to have more manners than the rest of you lot combined. Rollo, I congratulate you. You are truly a great warrior, for the gods to have chosen to honour you in this manner."

"Thank you, my lord," and Rollo's voice is a barely restrained growl at the contempt in the Earl's tone.

"Ragnar Lothbrok, it seems your journey must indeed have been by the will of the gods. But still, you disobeyed my orders - so here's what I've decided to do: I will take half this hoard, as recompense for your disobedience. The rest will be divided in the customary way, tomorrow, and so all the world can see how magnanimous and generous is your lord."

"Indeed, my lord," and Ragnar bows, acquiescing despite the unhappy murmurs of his crew. "You are most generous."

"Yes. But tonight we shall feast, in honour of your successful raid - and to celebrate your brother's - great good fortune."

His voice is pure disdain and even through the growing noise of cheering people in the hall, Athelstan can hear Rollo's growl.

The house that Rollo leads him to on the edge of town is small and empty. The air inside smells as if the house has not been aired out for weeks and the only light comes from the cracks in the door and the walls. At least it is not cold in the middle of summer.

The moment the door has fallen shut behind them, Rollo starts pulling his tunic off, baring tanned skin decorated with black symbols.

"Take you clothes off."

Athelstan is abruptly shaken out of his fascination with the twisting wolf on Rollo's arm.

"I'm sorry?" he asks, because no, surely not, one thing is stories whispered at night amongst the monastery's boys, delighted horror at heathen depravity in the safety of the dormitory, but surely not even these barbarians can have fallen so deeply, be so depraved as to twist a gift from God into something base and carnal and...

"That - dress. Take it off," and Rollo turns away, kneels by the hearth to start a fire. "It's bad enough that all of Kattegat has already seen you in it, but you will not shame me further by attending a feast in my honour dressed like a woman."

Athelstan cannot tell if it's relief that makes him try to give voice to his frustration.

"It's not a dress, it's a monk's habit. And it's not like I have any other clothes. Surely me being naked would shame you more?" and there's more he wants to say, so much more, except Rollo raises his head from the infant flames he's been feeding and looks at him, and the words stick in his throat. When Rollo stands and comes towards him, Athelstan trembles and wraps his arms protectively around himself - but the man does not strike him, simply shoulders past him, opens a large chest standing by the side of the wall, pulls a tunic out and throws it at Athelstan's face.

"Now do as I say."

Athelstan complies, fishing what seems like it might be a reasonable set of clothes out of the chest and turning his back to Rollo in an attempt to preserve his modesty as he starts to strip. The feeling of the trousers is unfamiliar after years of monastic life and all the clothes are too big for him, but he manages, tightening the belt as best he can. The door opens as he's pulling the tunic - which is also too big, though not as much - over his head.

He turns to find Ragnar looking at him and abruptly he feels embarrassed, feels ridiculous in these baggy clothes. But Ragnar just steps forward to adjust the tunic, as if Athelstan was a child not yet old enough to be trusted to dress himself.

"Are you ready for the feast, Brother?" he asks over his shoulder as he bends over the chest and digs out a pair of leather shoes, which he thrusts into Athelstan's arms.

"Almost."

"Hmmm," and Ragnar settles himself on a stool by the table and watches as Rollo ties a silk ribbon around his head. "I've been thinking - you should come along with me to the farm tomorrow. It will be easier to transport my share of the treasure if I can use your fishing boat - and besides, it would be good for the children to meet their new uncle."