A City Not Forsaken: A Novel of Alfred's Daughter

Prologue

793 A.D.

Lindisfarne

Kingdom of Northumbria

The story goes that the heavens warned of them: the Danes. The sky flashed and swirled, shrieking of danger, and nobody listened. There was talk of Danes, certainly -- a longship landing on another coast, a murder here and there -- but Lindisfarne was a holy island, and naught could touch her. Her priory sat tall on the green land jutting above the ocean, her stone arches looming protectively over the water like a mother watching over a babe, while inside was the slow, quiet bustle of the work of holy men. Quills dipping into inkwells, the whisper of morning prayers, dirty fingers coaxing root vegetables out of the ground.

The sky had shrieked and hollered for weeks, like maybe the creatures of heaven were desperately trying to pass a message down, shouting for the inhabitants of this little island to sharpen their knives and run, and then it all went quiet. Too quiet. Like a wave pulling back afore crashing down twice as large. And then, as a wispy breeze dashed the promise of a warm summer morning, and the sun peeked its head over the horizon, a small figure appeared in the water just there. A boat pressing its oars into the sea, cutting a small current through the murky blue. The boatmen spotted the island, licked their lips, growled with desire. Hands brushed against the blades at their waists, eager. Hungry for the one thing Danes were always hungry for: blood.

The boat found shore afore anyone on the island had even spotted it. The Danes piled out a few at a time, quiet at first, teeming with excitement, two dozen in all. Atop the hill, a few pairs of eyes widening, a few screams, and then the scrambling that might have saved them afore the boat touched ground.

Afore the sun was halfway up the sky, the house of God was plundered of every candle and cup, all its silver and gold, every worldly thing except the holy texts and the bones of old saints. The Danes laughed to leave these things untouched, a fell jest to leave behind only the things that spoke of God while the blood and sinews of His people were freshly besmeared across the walls and floors.

Once every life had been snuffed out, the Danes left behind the thing that would mark their conquests: the raven banner, woven by their women with dark magic, its flapping fabric promising another victory. It rustled in the wind, as violently as the sky had shaken to warn of it.

This little island was the beginning of it all. Now that the Danes had taken it, they would devour the rest of the Saxon kingdoms like a hungry wolf, never resting until every handful of Saxon soil was betwixt its teeth. It was three generations afore a Saxon kingdom stood against them. Three generations afore Saxon land was taken back out of the wolf's mouth. Three generations afore the raven banner was ripped to shreds.