Epilogue
of pilgrims to Addy’s shrine overwhelmed the monks’ ability to feed
and house them all. And although Fara monastery, uniquely among the
north-shore holy lands, had its own formidable guard—warrior monks
and proud Dane settlers who now called themselves Britons—the
Viking raids still swept the coast. Fara had two treasures, now too
precious to be risked at any cost. There was the body of Aedar,
which whether or not it was still whole in its coffin every few
months was reported to have restored someone’s sight, set some lame
man walking on his withered limbs or revived a dying child.
Miracle, or only the faith of the thousands who came there, burning
with hope and belief? It scarcely mattered. The healing was the
same, and Aedar of Fara was called a saint.
And then there was the book.
Many deputations had come from the south, men sent by the new
bishop of Hexham, and even from the Canterbury heartlands of the
new Roman church. The Gospel of Science, blasphemous or not, was too precious a
thing to be left in the hands of half-heathen monks in the north.
It should be taken to the proper authorities, submitted for
examination. The deputations came and put their case, and then they
went away.
But still the raids went on, and so
one morning at the perfect pitch of spring, a strange procession
set out from the lonely rock of Fara. At its heart, flanked by
outriders in cassocks and animal hides, was Addy’s funeral bier,
the coffin worn silkily smooth by all the hands that had touched
it. Behind it, fat and old but still as burly as a bear, the Viking
warlord Sigurd proudly rode. And at his side, not ceasing to remind
him with haughty gesture and look that he had still more reason for
his pride, the mighty chieftain Broccus kept his place. The two old
men were deadly rivals, and intimate, mead-swilling
friends.
The hawthorns were flowering, great,
pungent heaps of white blossom with pink hearts all round the
monastery graves. Cai and Fen, at the head of the exodus, drew
their horses to a halt for a moment. Fen snapped off one thorny
branch and passed it to his abbot, who took it from him tenderly,
their hands lingering over the touch.
Behind them they left the great
monastic school established by Caius of Fara. Cai didn’t fear for
its future. All around it on the plain were new, thriving villages,
their roundhouse huts enlivened by the shouts of first-generation
children, in some of whose faces Saxon blood had merged into the
Dane. Viking and Saxon still guarded the land, and martial arts
were taught along with Latin, Greek and studies of the stars.
Fara’s new abbot Oslaf was young, but seasoned in fires few older
men would have borne and survived.
“This place that we’re
going to—this new citadel up on its cliff…”
Cai rode on a few paces. The sunlight
was brilliant, the whole coastal plain laid out and glimmering
beyond the salt flats and dunes. The air was sweet in his lungs. He
breathed in the hawthorn and waited for Fen, who had loved his
reborn body with such skill and devotion all night, to finish his
thought.
“You do realise they just
followed a cow.”
“Who did?”
“The founding monks. They
prayed for a sign about where they should put their new church, and
a bloody cow turned up, and they just followed it.”
“Well, what of it? Perhaps
the cow knew best.”
Fen gave a snort. “Well, I see why
we’re taking our priceless holy relics out of danger there, then.
Speaking of which…”
“Don’t worry. Eyulf has the book.
He asked if he could read it as we went, if he travelled with the
linen in the cart. By the way, there was no need for you to call
the latest ambassador from Canterbury quite what you did.” Cai smiled. “Cow or no cow,
beloved, you can be sure the monks chose their place well. A great
rock by a river, out of reach of raiders—defensible water supply,
three sides protected by the cliffs…”
“Oh, Abbot Cai—how like a
soldier you sound.”
“Well, it isn’t Abbot Cai
anymore. I am just a monk again, and Addy’s guardian. And I am not
the only one transformed.”
Cai didn’t need to explain. Fen
brought Eldra into perfect step beside him, and they rode on, so
close their knees would brush from time to time, always within
reach of an outstretched hand. Fen the warrior, now Fen the
teacher, a companion and equal beyond any yearning heart’s dream. A
warrior still, his sword belt slung over his cassock, his great
wolf’s-head sword ready to meet trouble as it came. He was Cai’s
general—his right-hand man and faithful lover, their passion as
fresh as their first wild collision in the island waves.
Cai glanced back at the procession. It
gave him a reason to steady himself on Fen’s arm—just the briefest
touch, a promise. “Lover, is there nothing you regret? Not your
homeland? Not the freedom of the sea?”
Fen caught his hand—a promise kept—and
held on. “I have often wondered,” he said, “about the true meaning
of Gleipnir. It was nothing but a scrap of leather—lost again
now.”
“Yes. I think we left it in
the dunes.”
“But you see, I still have it. To
me you are home—my tribe, my honour. To me you are Gleipnir—the cord
that binds the wolf where fetters fail. Forever, my beloved
Cai.”