Vox Meditantis

Lindisfarne, Northumbria – 8th June, 793 AD

The dragons came first in dreams, their wings casting shadows across my prayers.

I am Brother Cuthred, scribe and keeper of simples in this blessed place of Lindisfarne, and I write these words as the sun climbs towards its zenith on this eighth day of June, in the year of our Lord seven hundred and ninety-three. The omens that have plagued our northern lands these past months press upon my mind like stones—immense whirlwinds, lightning that splits the summer sky, and those fiery dragons that common folk swear they have witnessed soaring above the moors. Yet this morning brought a different sort of portent: a woman, bloodied and speaking the Norse tongue, collapsed at our gates as the tide withdrew.

I had been in the herb garden, gathering comfrey for Brother Aldric’s swollen joints, when young Osric came running from the gatehouse. His face was pale as fresh parchment. “Brother Cuthred,” he gasped, “there is a woman—a heathen woman—and she speaks strangely, but also… also in Latin.”

The woman lay unconscious beside the stone cross that marks our threshold, her clothes torn and stained with dried blood. Dark hair escaped from beneath a travelling hood, and her hands—I noticed her hands particularly—bore the calluses of one accustomed to work, yet also the ink stains that mark a scholar. When she stirred and spoke, it was indeed in the language of Cicero, though accented strangely.

“Sanctuary,” she whispered, her grey eyes fixing upon mine with startling intensity. “I seek sanctuary from those who would follow me.”

I am not Abbot Eanwald, to make such decisions, yet something in her bearing stayed my hand from summoning the brothers immediately. “You are injured,” I said in Latin, for it seemed the tongue she preferred. “Let me tend your wounds first, then we shall speak of sanctuary.”

She allowed me to help her to the infirmary, though she moved with the careful grace of a warrior. As I cleaned a gash upon her temple, she studied me with those grey eyes. “You are gentler than I expected,” she said. “The stories of your kind speak much of fire and sword in conversion.”

“And what stories might those be?” I asked, though I suspected I knew well enough. The missions to the Germanic tribes had not always proceeded with the lamb-like meekness our Lord enjoined upon us.

“My name is Astrid Hjálmsdóttir,” she said, and I marked how she pronounced each syllable as if it were a blade being drawn. “I am—I was—a völva, a wise woman of my people. Until my own kinsmen decided that wisdom in a woman’s mouth is dangerous as poison.”

A völva—I knew that word from my studies of the northern tongues. A healer, a seer, one who stood between the worlds of gods and men in the heathen beliefs. “And what wisdom did you speak that so endangered you?”

She laughed, though there was little mirth in it. “I counselled against raiding a certain Christian monastery. I said the gods favoured those who built rather than those who merely destroyed. My uncle, whose son had died in a previous raid, declared me corrupted by southern influence.” She touched the wound I had just bound. “This is his argument against my counsel.”

The irony was not lost upon me. Here was a heathen woman who had argued for the protection of Christian houses, now seeking refuge in the very sort of place she had defended. “And why do you come to us?”

“Because,” she said, “I have heard that Christians prize wisdom, regardless of its source. Is this not so?”

I paused in my ministrations. How to answer? In truth, the Church had preserved much learning from pagan sources—Aristotle, Plato, the physicians of old. Yet we had also burned books and toppled temples. “We seek truth,” I said carefully. “Though we believe all truth flows from the one God.”

“Ah.” She nodded as if this confirmed something. “And tell me, Brother Cuthred—for I heard the boy speak your name—what does your one God say makes for a good life?”

The question struck me like a physical blow, for it was the very matter that had been troubling my prayers of late. Here in our monastery, we had the relics of Saint Cuthbert, the illuminated gospels that took our scribes years to complete, the largest library in all of Britain. We lived lives of contemplation, prayer, and service, following the Rule that governed our days from lauds to compline. Yet watching Brother Aldric’s slow decline from the joint-evil, seeing young Osric’s terror at the mere sight of a foreign woman, I had begun to wonder: were we living well, or merely living correctly?

“Our Lord taught that we must love God above all things, and our neighbours as ourselves,” I said, reciting the familiar words. “We are called to take up our cross, to deny ourselves, to serve others before ourselves.”

“And does this bring you happiness?” she asked with the directness I was learning was characteristic of her folk.

“Happiness?” I considered this. “We are not promised happiness in this world, but joy in the next. Our sufferings here are as nothing compared to the eternal bliss that awaits the faithful.”

Astrid was quiet for a long moment, studying her hands. “In my tradition,” she said finally, “we believe that a good life is one lived with honour—not the honour that comes from others’ praise, but the honour that comes from being true to one’s nature. The wolf does not apologise for hunting; the oak does not bend itself into the shape of a willow to please the wind. To live well is to live fully, to embrace both joy and sorrow as they come, to forge strong bonds with family and clan, and to leave behind something worthy when the time comes to join the ancestors.”

“And what of service to others? What of denying oneself for the greater good?”

She smiled, and for the first time, it reached her eyes. “Is it not service to use one’s gifts fully? If I have the skill to heal, am I not serving others by healing well? If I have the knowledge to guide my people wisely, am I not serving by speaking truth, even when it displeases them? Your Christian way seems to say that goodness comes from making oneself smaller, weaker. My way says goodness comes from making oneself stronger, better, more useful to the community.”

I found myself nodding despite myself. Had I not felt some similar stirring when I worked in the herb garden, when I saw a remedy I had compounded ease another’s pain? Was there not a joy in using the skills God had given me, rather than merely enduring His will?

“But what of humility?” I asked. “Pride goeth before destruction, says the wise man.”

“Pride in the sense of boasting, yes,” she agreed. “But is it pride to recognise one’s own worth? When my people speak of honour, they do not mean empty boasting. They mean knowing what one is capable of, and living up to that capability. A warrior who knows his strength but fights only to protect his family is honourable. A skald who knows her gift with words but uses them to preserve the wisdom of the ancestors is honourable. Is it not equally so with your healing skills?”

I was about to respond when a commotion arose from the courtyard. Through the narrow window of the infirmary, I could see Brother Oswald pointing urgently towards the sea. My blood chilled as I followed his gaze.

Ships. Three—no, four—sleek vessels approaching from the north, their square sails dark against the morning sky. Even at this distance, I could make out the curved prows, the shields lining their sides. Longships.

“Astrid,” I said, my voice hoarse with sudden fear. “Those kinsmen of yours who follow you—what did they look like?”

She had risen to look out the window, and her face had gone pale as winter bone. “Much like those,” she said quietly. “Though I fear these are not seeking me alone.”

The monastery bell began to toll—not the regular call to prayer, but the rapid, urgent clanging that meant danger. I could hear voices raised in alarm, the sound of running feet. Somewhere, Abbot Eanwald would be making swift decisions about the precious things: the gospels, the relics, the holy vessels that were the glory of our house.

“We must get you to the inner sanctum,” I said. “If you have truly claimed sanctuary—”

“Brother Cuthred.” Her hand fell upon my arm, and her grip was strong. “Tell me truly—in this moment, with death perhaps approaching, what do you believe makes for a good life?”

I stared at her, this strange woman who had come to us like a portent herself. Outside, the bells continued their frantic warning, and I could hear Abbot Eanwald’s voice raised in command. The longships were closer now, close enough that I could see the figures moving upon their decks.

“I believe,” I said slowly, “that a good life is one where we do not waste what we have been given. Where we use our gifts—all of them—in service of what is beautiful and true. Whether that service comes through prayer or through healing, through preserving knowledge or through defending those who cannot defend themselves.”

She nodded. “And what gifts have you been given, Brother Cuthred?”

I thought of my hands, skilled with herbs and healing. I thought of my knowledge of languages, which had let me speak with her. I thought of my ability to read and write, to preserve knowledge. “I have been given much,” I admitted.

“Then you must not let these gifts perish today, if you can help it.” Her eyes were fierce now, filled with the same intensity I had seen when she first spoke of sanctuary. “Tell me—where are your most precious books kept?”

“In the scriptorium, but Abbot Eanwald—”

“Your Abbot is wise, but he is thinking like a shepherd protecting his flock. I am thinking like a warrior who has seen what men do when blood-madness takes them.” She was already moving towards the door. “How many ways are there to reach your scriptorium?”

I found myself following her, caught up in her urgency. “Three—through the main hall, through the chapel, or through the outer courts. But you cannot—you are injured, and a woman, and—”

“And what?” She turned on me, eyes blazing. “Did we not just agree that a good life means using one’s gifts fully? I have gifts, Brother Cuthred. I know the minds of raiders, I know how they move and think. I know herbs and healing as you do. And I know something of defending precious things.”

We were in the corridor now, and I could hear the crash of waves against our shores as the longships landed. Shouts echoed from the courtyard—harsh voices speaking in the Norse tongue. My hands shook as I grasped my wooden cross.

“The books,” I said, making a choice that felt like stepping off a cliff. “The Lindisfarne Gospels, the works of Bede, the medical texts—they must not be lost.”

Astrid smiled grimly. “Then let us save what can be saved. In my tradition, we believe the gods help those who help themselves. Perhaps your God feels similarly.”

As we hurried through the corridors of my beloved monastery, I found myself praying—not the formal words of the liturgy, but something rawer, more honest. Let me live well in these moments, I prayed. Let me not waste what I have been given, whatever comes.

Behind us, the sound of splintering wood echoed through the halls as the Vikings forced their way into our sanctuary. Ahead lay the scriptorium, where centuries of knowledge waited in neat rows upon the shelves. Between us and destruction stood only our choices—and perhaps, I thought as I glanced at the fierce-eyed woman beside me, that was enough.

For is this not what a good life requires in the end? Not perfection, not even survival, but the courage to use what we have been given in service of what we hold most dear. Whether that service be offered to God or to gods, to family or to strangers, to the preservation of beauty or the protection of wisdom—perhaps the form matters less than the fullness of the offering.

The dragons had come, as dragons always do. But we would meet them with everything we possessed, and perhaps that would prove to be enough.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.

Photo by Chris Combe