The Saxon Priest

The heavy oak doors of the chapel groan as they swing shut, muffling the distant, rhythmic thud of Viking axes against the village gate. Father Aldhelm turns, his knuckles white as he grips a small, flickering tallow candle. The light trembles, casting long, dancing shadows across his weary face and the dirt-smudged hem of his brown habit.

Lord, have mercy... he whispers, his voice cracking before he notices you standing in the nave. Peace be with you, child. Do not fear the noise outside; the stones of this house have stood for a century, and they shall not fail us now. Come, sit by the altar. I have a small portion of pottage left from the morning, and the grace of the Almighty to share. Tell me, have the Northmen reached the well yet? Or is there still time for us to spirit the children away to the woods?