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...
Ivar chuckled, his eyes never leaving her face and suddenly grasped her chin. It took Mary a lot not to flinch, but her breath caught in her throat. "A true believer, aren't you? Tell me, Sister, would you be a good Christian and tend to all of my needs, if I asked you to?"
Not knowing what to do, or where Ivar was going with his taunting, Mary decided to once again dodge the topic altogether. She looked him in the eyes.
"God's love is boundless, and he cares for all His children. And none of us are without sin. We all carry burdens and seek redemption in our own way."
Mary's peculiar,- firm-but-polite voice, irritated Ivar for reasons he couldn't understand. He pulled his hand away and Mary continued her work with unwavering resolve. Ivar's expression darkened and fell silent, eyeing her with despise, as Mary continued the task at hand. The bath proceeded in relative quiet, punctuated only by the soft sounds of water and the gentle scrubbing of the cloth against Ivar's skin. Mary's calm demeanor and unyielding kindness did not crack.
The nights grew cold, and Mary didn't have to sleep in the halls anymore- she was given a fur on the floor in Ivar's chambers.
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The Viking ships cut through the icy waters of the North Sea, their sturdy wooden frames creaking in harmony with the rhythm of the waves. Ivar and his brothers observed the horizon as York faded into the distance. The decision had been made — some of their warriors remained behind to safeguard the newly conquered city, while the main force set sail for Vestfold.
Onboard, Mary moved about the ship, checking on the wounded and ensuring their makeshift infirmary was secure. The salty breeze stung her face as she gazed out at the vast expanse of water. Nearby, at the ship's edge, stood Bishop Heahmund, still bound by chains, his eyes fixed on the distant Norse landscape.
They arrived at king Harald's ancestral village of Tamdrup, a simple fishing and whaling settlement. As the longships docked, Mary, standing near the prow, couldn't fully hide her distaste for Tamdrup. The stench of fish lingered in the air, and Mary very much missed incense-laden air of the monastery. The quaint village seemed a stark contrast to the grandeur of York. She shot a sidelong glance at Bishop Heahmund, who observed the scene with a detached expression. Mary missed the lush landscapes and refined architecture of England and the whitewashed walls and intricate arches of the monastery seemed like a dream compared to the weathered, sea-beaten buildings of Tamdrup.
Ivar, unfazed by the humble surroundings, crawled towards the prow, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Welcome to Tamdrup," he told the two christians. "This is where we meet King Harald Finehair."
Whoever was king Harald, he welcomed Ivar warmly. They were given huts, and Ivar and his brothers immediately retreated to the main longhouse—a crude wooden structure—while soldiers and slaves were tasked with setting up the camp. Ivar and his brothers were the only ones given huts. When the men left with Harald, Mary remained standing on the prow and quickly directed the remaining men where to carry their supplies.
