Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

(Historical note: 1534 was the beginning of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. In 1536, the first closures started, including Haltemprice Priory, near Hull. The Pilgrimage of Grace began in this year too.) I’d hoped to end my days with an endless round of peace and reason. Now all I know, all I want, is to fulfil my need for revenge. They should never have come here.   I’m not saying my early life was without trouble. It wasn’t – though we got along, my mother and I. But she had her problems and so we moved around from place to place, never settling for long, never making those close friends you can rely on when times get hard. Sometimes she would disappear for a day, a night, sometimes two. But she always came back. Tired, listless, not wanting to eat for hours, but at least she was there for me. Kept me safe.   That was until I followed her, one dark evening. That was when I found out what she was really like, how her temper raged, how she changed and knew that ...

  The battered box was flung high up on the shingle, tipping over.   A shrill wail mixed feebly with the raging of the wind, but somehow Wymon heard it. He turned, searching for the source until another jagged flash of lightning showed the outline of the container. As the waves began to drag it back into the sea, Wymon stumbled forward, tripping over the debris littering the beach, but succeeded in grabbing the chest and heaving it up onto his shoulder.   In the slight shelter given by the harbour wall, he opened the lid. Staring down into the dark eyes of a newborn baby, he knew that his wife’s prayers had been answered.   ****   ‘You mustn’t go out, Erica. They say tonight will be the worst we have ever known.’ ‘But I love the storms, Mother. The sounds, the sea in its rage; so powerful. Something in me stirs when I hear it, when the rain lashes down on my skin and the sky is lit with fire.’ ‘Aye, your father always says you’re like the storm t...

  We set sail on the eve of another year of darkness. The signs were not auspicious but we had no choice. Our crops had failed and we believed that now would be a good time to journey to a more providential land, though a land, that we had heard was in flux. “Have we enough provisions to sustain the journey, brother?” Bjorn said. “I hope so, brother. Fear not, the Lord will carry us safely through our voyage,” Erik replied. Helga walked to the back of the boat and looked out across the shadowy horizon. The sea was eerily calm. It was as if they were gliding over a huge lake. The only light was from their flickering fire torches, that guided their path through the sea. Helga shivered as she thought of the tales that the skalds told, of the giant sea creatures that lurked out of the gloom and swallowed longships whole, like the serpent, Jörmungandr. If the tales were true, she was sure that they’d appear on a night like tonight, for it felt like something was about to happen. T...

  With a roar, Erik raised his shield to block the cut to his head and retaliated with a blow to his opponent’s side. His sword clattered against the other man’s shield and his opponent laughed. Erik sounded his battle cry again and lunged forward, swinging his own sword at his rival’s skull. But the other man caught it on his blade and turned his shield into a weapon, bashing Erik with such force he was sent sprawling to the floor. Both sword and shield were torn from his hand. He reached for the circular wooden board to defend himself but Bjorn placed a firm foot on his arm and laughed a second time. “It’s over, brother. Today’s victory is mine.” Erik merely grunted, but he took Bjorn’s hand when his brother offered it to him and got to his feet. Worry crept into Bjorn’s features, his eyes raised skyward now. Erik turned to look for himself and his eyes widened. They watched with growing dread as a shadow rolled across the sky. Like a black mist it swept over the land, ...

  The world was ending. Sol could still be seen moving across the sky in her great chariot, but her warmth and light could no longer be felt down on Midgard. Her brightness had become a distant memory, her beautiful orange glow replaced by a sinister bluish tinge. And so began the endless winter. Or rather, winter simply failed to end, refusing to release its icy clutches on the land while this strange dark cloud shielded it from the power of the summer sun. Bjorn had long since abandoned farming. As the days turned colder and the weeks passed with no hint of the gloom retreating, more and more crops began to fail. Now he relied solely on the hunt to survive. But even meat had become scarce, deer and boar feeling the grip of famine as surely as its people had. Successful hunts were growing fewer and farther between, and hunger was with him more often than not. Still, perhaps that day he might escape famine’s jaws. The deer’s tracks he’d found were still fresh and he’d seen no e...