24th April, 980.
Sigfrid sat by the fire, his fingers tracing the worn hilt of his axe as he reread the letter in his hand. Sheriff Werestan’s seal stared back at him, a symbol of Saxon pride, loyalty, and, as Sigfrid knew all too well, ambition. Werestan had taken it upon himself to demand a seat on the council, speaking of loyalty and expectation as though Sigfrid’s court were his own to command.
Sheriff was a powerful man, a figure of considerable influence among the Saxons. Yet Sigfrid could not ignore the truth: Werestan’s skills were hardly fitting for a council seat. Chancellor, perhaps, might be the one position he could handle—if only Reeve Ealdmund didn’t already occupy it, and with greater competence. No, placing Werestan in such a role would be a risky game, one that could cost Sigfrid far more than it was worth.
As he leaned back, watching the flames dance, Sigfrid’s thoughts turned to Ealdmund himself. If Werestan harbored ambition, then Ealdmund’s disdain was just as sharp. Both men shared a smoldering resentment for him, a silent contempt for the Norse ways that made his hall feel like a battlefield even in times of peace. They were both Catholics, Anglo-Saxons at heart, and they made no effort to mask their bitterness. They were like sparks lingering in the shadows, ready to ignite with the slightest breeze.
Sigfrid knew he’d have to make a choice—either pacify these Saxon nobles or remove them entirely. And so, he had sent letters, blunt and uncompromising. Convert to the faith of the Aesir, he had written, and a place on the council will be yours. It was a simple test, designed to reveal where their loyalty truly lay. Werestan and Ealdmund were welcome to a seat, but only if they renounced their god and embraced the faith of Odin and Thor. If neither complied, Sigfrid would find Norsemen or Danes to fill those roles—men whose loyalty was rooted in the same gods and customs he valued.
He had sent the same letter to his steward, another Saxon holding to the old Christian ways. Sigfrid couldn’t allow these Saxon roots of resentment to deepen within his court. He needed loyalty forged in common beliefs, not simmering defiance masked behind empty promises. If they refused to see the strength of the Norse gods, he would make sure they found no place in his hall.
It’s simple, Sigfrid thought, feeling the cool steel of his axe in his hand. If they won’t convert, they’ll be replaced. My court will be Norse, or it will be nothing.
Sigfrid waited, days turning to nights and back again, as each dawn broke with the hope of a response. Weeks passed, and finally, one evening as the sun dipped low, a lone rider approached the hall. The messenger entered with a solemn expression, bearing a letter sealed with Reeve Ealdmund’s mark. Sigfrid took it, noting the neat but forceful hand, and broke the seal. The parchment inside bore Reeve's words, firm and unyielding, written in a tone heavy with faith and devotion.
To Lord Sigfrid, ruler over these lands,
Lo, I, Ealdmund, servant of the Lord Almighty, do write unto thee in humbleness and firmness of heart. Know, lord, that the root of my faith is deep, as a mighty oak, in the Word of our Savior, Christ Jesus. My soul is bound to His grace, and no earthly throne, nor wealth, nor honor may sway it.
Thou hast bid me turn from the Light to the ways of thy gods. But, as the scriptures say, “One cannot serve two masters.” Thus, I cannot forsake the Holy Cross for Odin or Thor. Better it is, lord, to serve in the kingdom of Heaven than to dwell in comfort for a season, only to suffer the fire everlasting.
My heart is steadfast in the service of our Lord, and I cannot and will not relinquish my faith for any worldly place. May thy heart be moved to understand that which cannot be undone.
By the grace of God,
Ealdmund, Reeve of these lands
Days continued their slow march, the weight of waiting pressing on Sigfrid’s patience. When at last Sheriff’s letter arrived, it bore the mark of a different hand than Ealdmund’s—Sheriff’s writing, though firm, held an air of eloquence, reflecting his learned mind and skill in words. Sigfrid opened it with measured anticipation, knowing Sheriff’s wit and insight often lent his thoughts a unique perspective. The letter read :
To Sigfrid, lord over lands both fair and fierce,
Greetings, from I, Sheriff, who by heart and mind doth remain devoted to the teachings of Christ. Lo, your offer hath stirred much thought within me, and rightly so, for what man seeks not after wisdom, and what lord desireth not loyalty? Thy words were not without weight, and I have pondered them deeply in the stillness of the night.
Yet, lord, my soul is yet bound to the peace and mercy of the Holy Scriptures. Verily, it is written, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” My heart doth find its solace not in the sword of Thor or in the might of Odin, but in the humble grace of our Savior. Though thy offer is gracious, it would not suit me to part from what is dearer to me than earthly favor or worldly title. Better, I say, to labor here in humility, so that I may seek my reward in Heaven when the time of calling comes.
Know, my lord, that I write this not from pride but from love, for I am gregarious by nature and bear thee no ill. I pray my answer doth bring no slight to thy hand, and that the spirit of goodwill may yet remain between us. I would rather be true to what my soul doth yearn for than to find myself honored here only to betray my hope hereafter.
By my hand,
Sheriff, humble servant in this realm
Sheriff’s faith was sealed, and Sigfrid scarcely had time to set aside the letter when, by the same afternoon, another messenger entered with a letter from his steward. This one bore an unmistakable mark: a folded corner, slight but deliberate, a subtle sign of its author’s careful hand. Sigfrid knew his steward to be a man of schemes and hidden intentions, someone who moved through his duties like shadows through the night. His letter reflected the man himself—subtle, careful, yet determined...
Lord Sigfrid,
Thy message reached me and found its place in my mind as swiftly as arrow finds heart. I read and pondered, for there are few matters that weigh so heavily as one’s soul, nor choices that cut so deeply as those concerning faith. Thy offer is fair and well-considered, and for that, I commend thy wisdom.
Yet, know this, my lord: my path has long been walked in the footsteps of the Christ, and I cannot, even for promise or position, forsake the cross that I have trusted all these years. While I see the power of the Aesir, I hold my own hopes tied to the Word that has guided me, no less than any weapon or warrior’s skill. My loyalty is with thee, but my heart must remain where it has always rested.
Trust that I continue to serve with all diligence and care, though my faith stands firm, as unyielding as iron. I ask only that we leave this matter behind us, for my mind is fixed and my loyalty unchanged.
In trust,
Your steward and faithful servant
...
Sigfrid sat by the fire, his fingers tracing the worn hilt of his axe as he reread the letter in his hand. Sheriff Werestan’s seal stared back at him, a symbol of Saxon pride, loyalty, and, as Sigfrid knew all too well, ambition. Werestan had taken it upon himself to demand a seat on the council, speaking of loyalty and expectation as though Sigfrid’s court were his own to command.
Sheriff was a powerful man, a figure of considerable influence among the Saxons. Yet Sigfrid could not ignore the truth: Werestan’s skills were hardly fitting for a council seat. Chancellor, perhaps, might be the one position he could handle—if only Reeve Ealdmund didn’t already occupy it, and with greater competence. No, placing Werestan in such a role would be a risky game, one that could cost Sigfrid far more than it was worth.
As he leaned back, watching the flames dance, Sigfrid’s thoughts turned to Ealdmund himself. If Werestan harbored ambition, then Ealdmund’s disdain was just as sharp. Both men shared a smoldering resentment for him, a silent contempt for the Norse ways that made his hall feel like a battlefield even in times of peace. They were both Catholics, Anglo-Saxons at heart, and they made no effort to mask their bitterness. They were like sparks lingering in the shadows, ready to ignite with the slightest breeze.
Sigfrid knew he’d have to make a choice—either pacify these Saxon nobles or remove them entirely. And so, he had sent letters, blunt and uncompromising. Convert to the faith of the Aesir, he had written, and a place on the council will be yours. It was a simple test, designed to reveal where their loyalty truly lay. Werestan and Ealdmund were welcome to a seat, but only if they renounced their god and embraced the faith of Odin and Thor. If neither complied, Sigfrid would find Norsemen or Danes to fill those roles—men whose loyalty was rooted in the same gods and customs he valued.
He had sent the same letter to his steward, another Saxon holding to the old Christian ways. Sigfrid couldn’t allow these Saxon roots of resentment to deepen within his court. He needed loyalty forged in common beliefs, not simmering defiance masked behind empty promises. If they refused to see the strength of the Norse gods, he would make sure they found no place in his hall.
It’s simple, Sigfrid thought, feeling the cool steel of his axe in his hand. If they won’t convert, they’ll be replaced. My court will be Norse, or it will be nothing.
Sigfrid waited, days turning to nights and back again, as each dawn broke with the hope of a response. Weeks passed, and finally, one evening as the sun dipped low, a lone rider approached the hall. The messenger entered with a solemn expression, bearing a letter sealed with Reeve Ealdmund’s mark. Sigfrid took it, noting the neat but forceful hand, and broke the seal. The parchment inside bore Reeve's words, firm and unyielding, written in a tone heavy with faith and devotion.
To Lord Sigfrid, ruler over these lands,
Lo, I, Ealdmund, servant of the Lord Almighty, do write unto thee in humbleness and firmness of heart. Know, lord, that the root of my faith is deep, as a mighty oak, in the Word of our Savior, Christ Jesus. My soul is bound to His grace, and no earthly throne, nor wealth, nor honor may sway it.
Thou hast bid me turn from the Light to the ways of thy gods. But, as the scriptures say, “One cannot serve two masters.” Thus, I cannot forsake the Holy Cross for Odin or Thor. Better it is, lord, to serve in the kingdom of Heaven than to dwell in comfort for a season, only to suffer the fire everlasting.
My heart is steadfast in the service of our Lord, and I cannot and will not relinquish my faith for any worldly place. May thy heart be moved to understand that which cannot be undone.
By the grace of God,
Ealdmund, Reeve of these lands
Days continued their slow march, the weight of waiting pressing on Sigfrid’s patience. When at last Sheriff’s letter arrived, it bore the mark of a different hand than Ealdmund’s—Sheriff’s writing, though firm, held an air of eloquence, reflecting his learned mind and skill in words. Sigfrid opened it with measured anticipation, knowing Sheriff’s wit and insight often lent his thoughts a unique perspective. The letter read :
To Sigfrid, lord over lands both fair and fierce,
Greetings, from I, Sheriff, who by heart and mind doth remain devoted to the teachings of Christ. Lo, your offer hath stirred much thought within me, and rightly so, for what man seeks not after wisdom, and what lord desireth not loyalty? Thy words were not without weight, and I have pondered them deeply in the stillness of the night.
Yet, lord, my soul is yet bound to the peace and mercy of the Holy Scriptures. Verily, it is written, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” My heart doth find its solace not in the sword of Thor or in the might of Odin, but in the humble grace of our Savior. Though thy offer is gracious, it would not suit me to part from what is dearer to me than earthly favor or worldly title. Better, I say, to labor here in humility, so that I may seek my reward in Heaven when the time of calling comes.
Know, my lord, that I write this not from pride but from love, for I am gregarious by nature and bear thee no ill. I pray my answer doth bring no slight to thy hand, and that the spirit of goodwill may yet remain between us. I would rather be true to what my soul doth yearn for than to find myself honored here only to betray my hope hereafter.
By my hand,
Sheriff, humble servant in this realm
Sheriff’s faith was sealed, and Sigfrid scarcely had time to set aside the letter when, by the same afternoon, another messenger entered with a letter from his steward. This one bore an unmistakable mark: a folded corner, slight but deliberate, a subtle sign of its author’s careful hand. Sigfrid knew his steward to be a man of schemes and hidden intentions, someone who moved through his duties like shadows through the night. His letter reflected the man himself—subtle, careful, yet determined...
Lord Sigfrid,
Thy message reached me and found its place in my mind as swiftly as arrow finds heart. I read and pondered, for there are few matters that weigh so heavily as one’s soul, nor choices that cut so deeply as those concerning faith. Thy offer is fair and well-considered, and for that, I commend thy wisdom.
Yet, know this, my lord: my path has long been walked in the footsteps of the Christ, and I cannot, even for promise or position, forsake the cross that I have trusted all these years. While I see the power of the Aesir, I hold my own hopes tied to the Word that has guided me, no less than any weapon or warrior’s skill. My loyalty is with thee, but my heart must remain where it has always rested.
Trust that I continue to serve with all diligence and care, though my faith stands firm, as unyielding as iron. I ask only that we leave this matter behind us, for my mind is fixed and my loyalty unchanged.
In trust,
Your steward and faithful servant
...
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