Grey storms troubled the coasts of Jorvik since ancient days. Such was the force of them that many who lived near to them understood that to venture away from the shore at such times, was madness. It had by the time of this tale long since become a common phrase to say, ‘to venture out into a storm,’ as a means of commenting upon another’s madness or naiveté (or both). Such was the scorn that the people in particular of the lands of Gråroþburh had for those prone to such folly that they never failed, to make jeering songs insulting them.

This was not to say that they were without empathy, for those fishermen desperate or unlucky enough, to be out at sea when the tempest suddenly struck. To the contrary, for they had more than once offered their assistance to those men, who found themselves lost at sea, so that they tended to put up another proverb every time a ship was seen drifting by in the distance. ‘For every Gråroþburh-man or woman there is a Gallian or Arnish father,’ the saying originated from how many, were descended from Northmen or Gallians who had drifted ashore.

Where most villages had a tendency to find themselves, often fearful of Arnish raids, especially since the Arn-Kings had been chased away by Æthelwulf, the King of Brittia, Gråroþburh was different. Though, they did not trust their new Brittian monarch much more than they had, their neighbours did, they were content to be left alone by him. They also had less reason to fear Norse Viking-raids due in no small part, to their local Jarl’s large wooden-castle keep that loomed atop a nearby hill overlooking the sea.

There was only one matter that induced such apprehension, over their situation; that of their lord’s undeniable youth.

“It was entirely the fault of his father,” some were prone to complaining, especially Hunbeorht the fisherman, when deep into his cups, his mead-filled drinking-horn often kept close to him after dark, especially in the winter-months. “I swear to thee, his foolish comportment would never have been tolerated by his late grandfather, the previous Jarl. Now there, was a wise ruler if ever there was one!”

“Oh do be quiet Hunbeorht,” Some might shout such as the tavern-master, Leodbeorht, “Ye mutter too harshly, about our previous Jarl.”

“‘Tis the truth, he should never have meddled in matters pertaining to Lilystone-Keep, and its master Adam.” Hunbeorht muttered always in response, hardly ever satisfied or put off by the complaints of his neighbours.

He knew full well that they did not sincerely intend to silence him, for they well knew him to have the right of it. Who could deny the folly of delving into the haunted lands of Lilystone? Especially when one was a Jarl with but one son, and a young one of eight years of age at that, no uttered the locals often and under their breaths, their prior lord was not a wise man.

What none criticized about him though, was the good nature and sincerity that guided his every act, as brave by nature as the man’s southron wife was fearful by nature. Eadgifu was a fair-woman by any stretch of the imagination, beauteous in spite of having given birth to a child however she was also of an ever increasing anxious almost paranoid nature.

This was how dark whisperings and rumours had begun that she might have her brothers, and half-brothers from the southern lands of Valburh brought hither to guard her, and her son. The brothers in question, having a nefarious reputation for violence a great many did not greet this gossip with much enthusiasm.

Lo! I have painted for ye dear reader, a bleak painting indeed. You can for this reason, why the local people looking up and realising that the heavens were blackened might prefer to hide away in their huts and small wooden-houses. Many were those who shook their heads in dismay, whilst others beamed at the vision of the darkened heavens, pleased as they were that the heavy rainfall was to prove a boon for their crops.

It was also with a certain dismay and worry that they cast their eyes out into the sea, to discover a distant sloop cutting its way through the waves. The twin-sails of the large ship were held up by large masts that were visible from the shore, with the sails twin black bolts of cloth that hardly set anyone’s nerves at ease. It reminded many of the ever looming threat, since the fall of the Arnish Kings of Jorvik, of piratical Nordic raids.

“They ought to weigh anchor and hurry hither to the shore,” Judged all the fishermen, Hunbeorht especially.

But the captain of the vessel was evidently hardly of the same, quality intellectually or in practical sea-matters that the fisherman was.

Refusing to halt for the night, he was to attempt to press on; doing so long after the locals had turned to their beds, hopeful to sleep through the thunderstorm that followed.

The first of the men to drift ashore, onto the beach the following morn’, was stout and barely alive so that the locals had difficulties reviving him. It was not until old Ada, a nearby widow of a fisherman two years gone, leapt up and threw her knee deep into his gut that he regurgitated the water trapped within his lungs.

“Do not simply stand about, carry him thither to my home, we must attend him!” The old woman screeched taking matters in hand, alongside Leodbeorht.

The tavern-master was next to come to the rescue of a survivor from the ruined ship, having the man taken away to his pub without a second’s hesitation. This second man being a younger man, with vivid blonde hair, who revived swifter than the plump sailor Ada had revived.

Hardly cognizant until another eight men had been rescued, the youth began his tale haltingly, in hoarse tones which bespoke of a need for drink. It was hastily supplied, by a very swift Leodbeorht. “Merci,” he murmured with Leodbeorht startled by this one word calling for someone to be sent to the local monastery dedicated to the goddess Tempestas. Only one of their ranks might well be able to translate the youth’s words.

The monk dedicated to the storm goddess came soon, having alongside the other monks who lived barely an hour away been made aware that there were many who had drifted onto the beaches of Gråroþburh. “I am here, everyone make way! Make way!”

Reluctantly, the people who had begun to crowd the tavern entrance made way, with Leodbeorht relieved to see that it was Brother Harold, who had arrived. The monk was a frequent visitor of the pub, the Merry-Hog and was a practical man, who did not often let himself become distracted by more romantic theological matters, like his peers who hid themselves deep within the abbey.

“Brother, we have given him a drink, if you would do us the honour of translating his Gallian tongue for us, we would be obliged, as would he I imagine.” Leodbeorht uttered welcoming the bald, fifty-four year old paunchy monk who advanced at a swifter pace than some half his age could.

“C’est quoi ton nom?” Harold burst out, with nary a preamble, throwing himself at once into interrogating the sailor resting in the tavern-master’s bed.

“Renaud, frère,” the young man answered at once, in a pious tone.

“His name is Renaud, or Rinaldo if you will,” Harold translated at once, with but a momentary glance to those gathered all about and behind him.

These perfunctory introductions out of the way, the good monk moved next to the matter of translating the boy’s story, even as he told it. It was with growing alarm that they soon learnt of the reasons for the ship’s departure from the lands of Norençia to the north of Neustria, and who it had carried.

“The ship of the Lion-Noir, thus named by the usurper King of Neustria set sail by his command for Caledonia, with the intention to re-establish trade-relations. Selected for the duty to act the role of ambassador was the rightful Baron de Lunard. But the baron in question being displaced by his cousin, the Comte who had usurped his lands had complained to Charles the King. But Charles had little in the way of compassion for the young baron. Thus, he was exiled without being formally cast out from the kingdom,” Translated Harold calmly with some minor difficulty and this only after minutes of listening to the youth.

“He was exiled because he was usurped?” One of the patrons asked confused.

“That is the extent of this youth’s knowledge,” The monk replied.

“Likely the baron deserved his fate.”

The monk might well have agreed were it not for the youth continuing his tale, which caused Harold some trouble to translate properly for those who surrounded him.

“It happened that they had set out in good spirits, with the sole individual aboard the ship hardly in good humour being the Lord Marculf himself. Full to the brim with grief, he was to stay near the rear of the ship until the port had long since disappeared from sight. His sister had stood there staring after him, heartbroken and full of such sorrow as to make even the most hardened of men cover their faces, such was the pain that the siblings felt.

We were at sea for days, and days with the captain a man who had journeyed up the coast of Brittia but once before, and that was twenty some years hence. More accustomed, to sailing to Ériu, he had utterly misjudged the situation and though he tolerated no questions, or doubtful remarks about his leadership, it soon became common knowledge he was sailing blindly. Most were unsure, if we had over-shot the mark so to speak, or if we were near to Caledonia, many fell to despair such that two men leapt over-board.

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When at last the Lord Marculf lost patience with the incompetent captain, and urged him to listen to the first-mate, a much more veteran sea-dog, accustomed to this journey. It was too late; we hit a rock just as a storm broke out.”

There were a great many murmurs that escaped the crowd, most were stunned at the folly of the captain.

The boy went on, and Harold carried on with his translation, even as he seated himself to begin to commit all that he heard to writing. Only now thinking it might be useful for him to write a note or two regarding what had come to pass, to the abbot of the abbey.

“At the first, we were all stunned especially those of us on the oars, and we began to pray to the good goddess of the storm, that she might be appeased. It was all to no avail, if she heard our pleas she paid them no mind for the ship began to falter and collapse. So that all knew that this might well be the end, and we were to sup on the morrow within the gloomy halls of the storm-goddess.

Lo! I tell you now, never had a ship been more, full of weeping, of sorrow and of fear than the Lion-Noir was: Night fell and hope departed, so that all lost sight of reason. We might well have sunk our own ship in a fit of madness, were it not for the good Baron. Newly knighted, and young so that he had appeared to us almost akin to a child, I daresay I though nine and ten years of age am still older than he! He rose up, as a man possessed steely arms upraised and oar cast aside a great bellow torn from his lips.

‘Away, we must fly from this ship and cast ourselves into the sea,’ He told us, stern and tall as only he could be in that moment.

Though the captain of the ship had shown little joy, when the lord took command, he nonetheless could do little to keep him from assisting us over the edge of the ship.

‘Go with the grace of Tempestas and Marianne,’ he told us hearkening to Tempestas and the Golden Goddess, for our protection. Praying for each man as he assisted him, carrying some and escorting others, organizing all into groups to seize a piece of driftwood torn from the mast, the corners of the ship or down below where the oars were to be found.

Valorous and unbending, he was so that even the first mate obeyed. It was masterful to behold him move about the ship while others trembled, he flew where others stumbled, so graceful was he that not one man failed to call him ‘lord’ or ‘sieur’ in that moment.

‘You must go now, milord and abandon me now,’ quoth he who had led us into this disaster, such was the shame that he felt.

‘Never, o captain, were I to desert you in thy hour of need, I could no more call myself a knight than I could continue to call myself a good Quirinian.” Marculf argued, in return stern and soft in voice then all at once.

I overheard them, due in no small part because I had just stumbled above-deck, unseen by the good lord who noticed me only thence, and at once there was such a spark of anger in his eyes as to frighten me. Seizing me, he threw me bodily over the ship, with such a bellow that I grew for the first since I met him, frightened of him.’

When the tale was told and poor Renaud lapsed into unconsciousness, the people fell quiet also. None knew quite what they ought to say, for all were shocked by the tale.

The first to speak was Leodbeorht who asked of Harold, “He said more, what else did he say ere he fell away to unconsciousness, brother?”

“Hmm? Oh, what he had to say was that the lord leapt from the ship, out into the surf and began to swim in spite of the weight of his arms and hauberk.” Harold uttered adding after a moment’s thought, “I shall only add this; in the moment when he saved the crew and threw himself bodily overboard, he truly did as no other man could have and mastered his fate.”

With those quiet and sombre words, Leodbeorht once again took command of the situation, calling for the crowd to leave. It was only until there were but five people still in the tavern that he asked of them, “Timothy I would have you call upon her ladyship. She must be informed of what has come to pass, as for you Leodegrance prepare your boat that we may search for survivors.”

“What do you have in mind, Leodbeorht, you shan’t expect us to search the sea for one man? It is very likely he drowned due to being dragged down by his armour!” Leodegrance complained at once.

“Never you mind, prepare it, and select the eldest of your sons,” Ordered the tavern-master brooking no argument, familiar with the sons of the man. They were all stout boys, but the eldest Morcar was the hardiest of the lot. Once they had stepped outside, and he had left the other three men to guard the resting sailors, he muttered to himself with a glance to the heavens. “We must not tarry, with petty fears and disagreements, lest we be caught out when the storm returns…”

It was with these frightened and ominous words that they set out to sea, in the hopes that they might rescue the poor knight who had so heroically saved the Lion-Noir’s crew. Though, Morcar and Leodegrance had no great enthusiasm for the duty, they dispensed it well in spite of many complaints.

“Cast your nets,” Commanded Leodbeorht when they were some distance from the shore.

This they did, and they met with failure.

Thrice more he was to suggest that they cast their nets, and each time they met with failure.

It was as they withdrew the net and the tavern-master lost faith that the youth, Morcar became all the more resolute.

“We shan’t give up our efforts quite yet, old Leodbeorht,” Morcar said all of a sudden, surprising him with his grit.

Staring at the twenty-year old youth in bewilderment Leodbeorht said to him, “But we have already tried, and you yourself had no wish at the outset to help this knight.”

“Aye, but that was before,” the youth stuttered wishing to do right and cling to his pride all at once.

Shaking his head, uncomprehending the two old men did as they were urged.

It was not long thereafter that fortune, or perhaps it was fate at last favoured their efforts as from the depths of the sea surged a hand over the side of their small fishing vessel. Startled as the hand had appeared from behind them, and with tales of corpses lost at sea returning to the living to drag them into the depths they nearly struck the figure.

It was fortunate that they did no such thing.

Though his face was hidden thanks to the shadows cast by the lateness of the hour, for the night was moonless they knew him by the description of his long, limbs that they pulled at. This they did for some time, until he was at last tugged onto the boat.

Once he had collapsed onto the fishing-ship it creaked ominously, with the three of them hurriedly rowing eager to get back to land.

Drifting past a number of ships that were setting out, as the locals each not wishing to be surpassed in nobility by the three of them, followed their examples. Led by brother Harold, who had cast aside his thick robes in favour of a tunic he had borrowed from another of the fishermen, he said to them. “What an impulsive act, now row ye knaves, lest we fail to prove ourselves more vigorous than they!”

The monk’s words pulled a couple of chuckles from the men, who did as bidden, even as the monk turned his attention to the first of the ships to have set out.

“We have found the Baron, and are taking him back,” Leodbeorht confirmed to him, pulling the slightest of nods from the clergyman, who torch in hand continued to urge the fishermen forward.

The beach was regained; thereupon they discovered a number of the womenfolk awaiting them. Many of whom were more concerned for their men, casting faint tears into the sea in some cases. Others still held themselves more upright and with nary any tears, rather three of these stronger sorts helped in the pulling the ship well away from the sea and the tying of it.

Turning to his wife, Leodegrance asked of her, “Any word from her ladyship?”

“No, I imagine the fool sent has somehow tripped his way into a goblet or barrel full of mead and beer.” The old woman grumbled, “I think it might have been wiser to send Brother Harold up the hill to fetch her.”

“It could never be Harold, she has no love for him,” Leodbeorht corrected her.

“But he has more sense than any other monk,” Protested another of the women, it was Leogifu, niece of Leodegrance’s wife.

“What of the baron?” Another of the women asked keenly.

“He is here, having foolish worn his armour for raiment even whilst at sea,” Leodbeorht grumbled unimpressed by the lack of wits on the part of the man in question.

They did not speak much more of the nobleman, so that they pulled him with some difficulty from near the sea. Taking him away to the tavern, they were to put him to bed, in another of the straw-beds there, where Harold was called hither to minister to him.

When they set about waiting for the monk, it was Sigrid (wife of Leodbeorht), who complained being the first to take notice of how they had left the man’s helm on his head.

“What a great bunch of fools you all are to have left such a garish mask on his head, when he might well be choking.” She complained in that way that all those who have lived for more than sixty-years upon this earth, could.

“We forgot woman,” Morcar grunted irritated and embarrassed.

“Never you mind that, we ought to wait for Brother Harold,” Leodbeorht said too weary to worry about the knight at present and feeling he had already done his part.

The helm now that he looked upon it, was decorated with a steel mask that hid the face yet was shaped rather like it with only holes for the eyes. Clearly hand-crafted by Dwarves for it captured the most angelic of male visages imaginable without truly being made flesh, it was as unsettling to look upon as much as it caught the eye.

The moment that she had reached over to remove his helm, she was halted by the hand of the warrior who caught her up mid-motion.

With his green-flashing eyes peering up at her from within the metal helm, his gaze flashed with such disapproval that she froze where she stood. “Que fais-tu madame?”

His Gallian words were not comprehended, with the lady stuttering a response whereupon he realized what tongue she spoke, and he spoke once more. His Brittian was broken, accented and of a negligible quality. “What pray-tell dear lady, is the reason for which you have reached your hand towards me?”

Recovering her self-respect and sense of dignity the lady was to object to his hand upon her own, puffing up she said to him, “I merely wished to remove your helm, so that you may breath all the easier.”

Marculf considered her words, and might well have answered with Leodbeorht unsure if he had properly understood her. They were fortunate when Harold arrived, weary and ill-tempered as he reported.

“We have discovered another thirteen men, I do believe that is all of them,” He took notice then of the nobleman, switching to his Gallian he soon translated for the youth’s hosts. “He was most concerned for his crew, let him rest and in a few hours bring him some gruel and bread.”

“But what of his lungs and the water that likely is still therein him?” Leodbeorht’s wife complained.

“If he can speak, he is in good health leave him,” Harold retorted shortly, grumbling, “I am wearied therefore if there is nothing else, I should like to retire back to the monastery to rest.”

“Certainly, Brother Harold, you have our thanks and gratitude,” the tavern-master said at once, grateful to the monk for his assistance.

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The following morning, after Leodbeorht had awoken and arisen from the bed he had slept in, with his wife in one of the spare rooms, it was to discover a frantic Ivarr. The youngest of Morcar’s brothers, the youth said to him, in a voice of such panic and terror that at once drew the older man’s attention and caused him to awaken completely.

“It is terrible! Leodbeorht you must come at once!”

“Why? Speak sense lad!”

“It is Brother Harold!”

“What? What is the matter with the good Brother?” He pressed confused, and worried all the more. “Is he injured? Did he trip along the road to the monastery?”

“No, he is not injured but rather….” Ivarr hesitated, only to persist when prompted, “He is dead!”