by Terry Deary
“Your last chance, old man,” the Viking leader said to Brother James. “Where are the boys?”
“We’re here,” Edwin said.
The Viking turned slowly and a grin spread over his face. “So you are. So you are. Welcome, my young friends. How would you like to make a little trip over the seas?”
Edwin and Luke stood silent. The Viking walked over to them slowly and gripped the hoods of their robes, one in each hand. He lifted them off their feet. “Skinny, but you’ll sell well in the markets of Stafangr.”
He turned towards the gates of the abbey, dragging the boys with him. But a figure blocked his path. It was Brother James.
“I cannot let you take the boys,” he said.
Snorri blinked. “Cannot? Cannot? Who is going to stop me?”
“I am,” Brother James said.
Chapter Seven
Prayer Book
Snorri looked around at the Viking warriors. Some of the monks peered around the church door to see what would happen next.
“I am a Viking,” Snorri said in a rumbling voice. “I do not want to hurt an old man who has lost half his wits.”
“Good,” Brother James smiled. “I do not want to hurt you, either.”
Snorri took a deep breath to hold back his rage. He put down the two boys and looked at one of his fair-haired warriors. “Get him out of my way,” he ordered.
The warrior strolled over to the old monk. He stretched out an arm to grab him by the shoulder. What followed happened so quickly that no one was quite sure what Brother James did. He seemed to pull the warrior towards him. As the surprised man stumbled forwards, Brother James rolled onto his back, placed a foot in the warrior’s stomach and sent him flying like a Whitby gull. The Viking stopped flying when he hit the garden wall, and there he lay, groaning.
Snorri squinted hard at Brother James as the old man rose to his feet. “Are you a soldier? You fight like one.”
“I am a monk,” the old man shrugged, and dusted down his robe carefully.
“Only soldiers can fight like that,” Snorri argued.
Brother James thought about this for a while. “Elli wasn’t a soldier, was she? She was just an old woman. But she stopped Thor from leaving the hall, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but Elli had magical powers. She had old age on her side,” the Viking said.
“I have old age on my side,” Brother James said. “And my magical power comes from this.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out his prayer book.
“Your books can’t stop iron weapons,” the Viking raged. He reached into his belt and swept his sword from his belt.
Brother James stood still.
Suddenly Edwin ran to the fair-haired warrior, who was still lying by the wall. He tore the dazed man’s sword away and threw it towards the old monk.
“Fight, Brother James, fight!”
Snorri gave a roar. He stepped forward and brought his sword down in a terrible sweep towards the old man’s skull.
Brother James raised his sword to meet the blow. His thin arm, wrinkled, twisted and as strong as an ancient tree, stayed firm. The swords clashed with a clang that rang round the monastery like the church bell.
“I won’t be beaten by an old man like you,” Snorri screamed.
“That’s what Thor probably said,” the monk laughed.
Chapter Eight
Viking Iron
Snorri the Viking threw himself at Brother James. But every stroke the Viking made was met with the firm sword of the monk.
The other monks came out of the church.
“Pray, brothers, pray!” the abbot cried.
The men fell to their knees and raised their eyes to the sky.
“Asking your gods for help?” Snorri whined. “That’s cheating.”
In his rage, the Viking chief raised his weapon high above his head and brought it crashing down in a blow that would split a man from head to waist. But when Snorri’s sword met the monk’s, it snapped in two.
The Vikings gasped. The monks stopped praying.
“Kill the monk before he kills me,” Snorri ordered his men.
A warrior stepped forwards. “No, Snorri. You cannot defeat old age. Even Thor was beaten by Elli. Leave him. Let’s go home.”
The warriors muttered among themselves and started to head for the gates. Snorri followed slowly. The boys and the silver were left behind.
The Viking looked at the old monk. “You didn’t beat me … not by yourself,” he said.
“No,” Brother James agreed. “I had the help of my god.”
“He must be a great god … greater than Thor.”
“He is,” the abbot said bustling forwards. “Our god will always beat your gods, so go on – clear off.”
Snorri looked angry and waved the broken stump of his sword at the abbot.
The abbot jumped backwards and cried, “Keep away from me, you bully. Go away and stay away!”
“Tell your people what happened,” Brother James said. “Then come back. Come back and we will tell you our stories.”
Snorri shook his head. He wandered out of the gate and back towards the ships.
“That was so brave,” Luke said to Brother James.
The old man threw down the sword, wearily. “No. Not brave. Fighting steel with steel isn’t brave. What you and Edwin did was brave. If you hadn’t come back, they would have killed us all. You came back with no swords and no hope. You risked your freedom to help your brothers.”
Edwin stayed silent.
Brother James smiled and the winter in his face showed shades of summer. “It’s like the abbot said, our god will always beat their gods … at least so long as there are heroes like you. Let’s go and eat,” he said.
Luke grinned. “Yes, being a hero is hungry work.”
Epilogue
The Danes attacked and burned Whitby in 867. The monastery was so badly damaged the monks didn’t return until 1078. But in the battle of the gods it was the Viking gods that lost. In time, the fighting gods like Thor were forgotten. The Vikings settled in England and became farmers, not fighters. Monasteries like Whitby were smashed, but the spirit of the monks wasn’t destroyed.
In every monastery there were all sorts of people. There were even boys like Edwin and Luke, who enjoyed playing tricks on the older monks. Dripping candle wax onto the bald heads of their superiors was one of the games they played.
Not all the people in the monasteries were good men. A monk called Alcuin said many monks led such bad lives, feasting and drinking, that they deserved to be attacked by Vikings. Alcuin wrote an angry letter, saying …
“Think, brothers, maybe this curse arrived because of your evil ways. Look at the rich clothes, the proud way you wear your hair, the rich feasts of the princes and people.”
Imagine – you’re attacked by men with swords because of your haircut!
The monasteries went on for another 600 years until an English king, Henry VIII, closed them down. He grabbed their land and their money for himself. If any monks tried to stop him, they were hanged from the church steeples.
The Vikings robbed and ruined a few monasteries in Britain. But a cruel king robbed and ruined them all.
First published 2010 by
A & C Black
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP
www.acblack.com
This electronic edition published in March 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © 2010 Terry Deary
Illustrations copyright © 2010 Helen Flook
The rights of Terry Deary and Helen Flook to be identified as the
author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in
accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978 1 4081 9805 6
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
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