Chapter One
The Time Has Come
The Isle of Iona, Pictland (Scotland)
the CLANG of an iron bell echoed across the monastery. The noise jarred in the peace of the warm morning, carrying far over the surrounding sea.
Flann lowered his hammer and straightened up from where he had been bashing nails into a door.
He glanced over his shoulder, watching the monks in the fields below down their hoes, rakes, and spades and make their way toward the church.
The bell was calling them to None. It was a short service; soon they would all gather in the feasting hall for the noon meal.
Flann would join them too.
Glancing back at the door, he cast an eye over his work.
A sense of satisfaction filtered over him—he had done a good job.
The door had blown off its hinges in a storm a few days earlier.
This storehouse held the monastery’s most precious food: cheese and salted meats which they kept for special occasions.
It was important to keep it properly sealed.
Flann wiped a forearm across his brow. He then slowly, sinuously, stretched his long body, enjoying the feel of warmth on his skin. He raked his fingers through his short blond hair, allowing a sea breeze to feather against his scalp.
It was a fine morning to be outside, and Flann was almost tempted not to retreat indoors after the noon meal. Instead, he could take a walk along the coast, past nesting puffins and seals basking on the sun-warmed rocks.
Only, Father Aiden had asked him to copy a manuscript this afternoon. He would feel as if he was shirking. A pity though, for even in summer, this isle was hit by prevailing winds that made days like this rare.
Collecting his tools, Flann walked down the path from where the cluster of storehouses sat upon a rise and made his way toward the heart of the monastery.
A sense of well-being settled upon Flann as he walked.
His life here was a simple one, yet these days he found a quiet, steady contentment in it.
Flann walked past neatly tended beds where a riot of onions, kale, turnip, and carrots grew, and entered a long, windowless structure sitting behind the church.
Indoors, a huge iron pot hung over a hearth at one end, where a thick turnip pottage simmered.
Before going to None, the monks had laid the table ready, but—as was his habit—Flann finished off the preparations.
He retrieved a heavy loaf of coarse bread from the center of the table and cut it into slices: one for each monk. Then he set bowls of cheese curds, freshly made that morning with goat’s milk, along the table—one bowl to be shared between four.
This was a typical noon meal here. Upon his arrival at Iona a decade earlier, Flann had struggled to adjust to the frugal diet and the lack of meat. He had spent his first few months constantly hungry. These days though, he was used to the fare.
Flann was collecting the earthen bowls for the pottage when the first of the monks entered the feasting hall, dipping his head as he entered.
“Good day, Brother Euan,” Flann greeted him.
The monk grinned back. “And to you. A fine morning to be alive.”
Flann dipped a ladle into the pottage and filled the first bowl, handing it to the monk. “Aye … if only every summer were like this one.”
The monks all agreed that this summer was the finest any had experienced upon the windy isle of Iona: day after day of sun.
More brown-robed monks entered the feasting hall then, Prior Aiden amongst them.
He was an older man with heavy features and penetrating dark eyes.
Once he had served the rest of the monks, Flann took a bowl of pottage for himself and sat down at the end of the long table.
He tore a chunk off his slice of bread and dipped it into the thick vegetable stew.
“I’ll start on that manuscript this afternoon, Father,” he said, after he had swallowed his first mouthful. As usual, the pottage was bland, overcooked, and in desperate need of salt. “Will you show me what you need copying?”
Prior Aiden nodded. “Thank you, Flann. Collect your writing tools and meet me in the scriptorium after we are finished here.”
The scriptorium—a room built onto the far end of the church where monks wrote and copied documents—was one of Flann’s favorite corners of the monastery.
It had a large shuttered window looking out onto the herb garden.
Flann was glad he would work there, for the hut where he lived on the edge of the monastery was windowless, forcing him to write by candlelight.
Flann reached out and helped himself to some cheese curd. He ladled it into his pottage, hoping it would improve the flavor. Taking another mouthful, he glanced up to see the prior watching him, a speculative look in his eyes.
Flann hesitated. “Father?”
Father Aiden smiled. “Ten summers you’ve been with us, Flann … did you realize that?”
“Aye … just this morning I was thinking how fast the years have passed.”
The prior’s smile faded a little. “You were lost when you arrived here … I worried for you.”
“You did?” The admission surprised Flann. He had not noticed at the time—he had not paid attention to much save his own misery. “Your worries were unfounded, Father,” he replied with a smile. “I’m happy now.”
Father Aiden’s heavy brow furrowed slightly. “You understand why I didn’t let you take your vows, don’t you?”
Flann tensed. He did, and truthfully he had eventually grown used to being an outsider of a sort here. Yet he wished the prior had not asked him this when the others were sitting with them. He could feel the curiosity of the monks’ gazes as they swiveled to him.
He knew many of them wondered why this scholar continued to live with them.
“It was for the best,” he replied after a pause. “You told me a man shouldn’t take refuge in God, that it must be a calling … and you were right.”
The prior continued to watch him. “You’ve changed much over the years, matured into a man of temperance and reason.”
Flann’s smile turned embarrassed. “Thank you, Father.”
“The time has come for you to make a decision,” the prior continued, reaching for a cup of watered-down wine. “If you wish to take your vows now, I shall allow it.”
Surprised, Flann straightened up, his smile fading. The feasting hall went quiet around them, and he knew without glancing their way, that the monks were staring at him.
“Really, Father?”
“Aye … I think you’re ready.”
Flann did not know what to say. If the prior had announced this during his first years here, he would have been overjoyed at the news. Yet, he was in his twenty-eighth summer now and had grown accustomed to the special role he held in the monastery.
Truthfully, he was not sure he wanted to become a monk.
He did not voice this opinion though, for the prior was watching him with a hopeful expression, while next to him, Brother Euan was nodding with obvious approval. “It’s time, Flann,” the monk added. “You’ve been with us long enough.”
Flann smiled once more—forcing the expression this time—and hoped his lack of enthusiasm did not show on his face. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You all honor me.”
The noon meal finished quickly. The monks did not linger over meals, not even this one, which was the most substantial of the day. There were still many chores to get through before Vespers in the late afternoon.
Flann rose to his feet and helped clear away the bowls. It was his turn to help wash up, so he stood with Euan and two others scrubbing the wooden bowls, spoons, and platters, before he emerged from the dimly lit hall into the bright noon sun.
Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, Flann strode down the path toward the edge of the monastery. His hut, from where he would retrieve his writing tools, perched upon a rocky knoll, looking out to sea. It sat apart from the long dormitories where the monks dwelt.
If I become a monk, all this will change.
Flann enjoyed his privacy. He liked that although he spent his days working hard, he held a freedom the monks did not.
Do I really want to take my vows?
Ten years ago he had. He had wanted to lose himself in a monk’s life.
But the years had healed his pain; his uncle had been right about that.
Sometimes of late, he had even caught himself feeling restless.
Iona had started to feel restrictive. His thoughts often drifted to his kin in éirinn.
How was Daragh faring? His cousins would likely be wedded now and beginning families of their own. Sometimes he missed them.
Deep in thought, Flann made his way along the path, toward the low-slung wattle and daub hut. His gaze traveled the view he had seen every day over the past decade: a windswept, treeless landscape surrounded by a wide blue sea.
It was then he saw the boat.
The craft was crossing from the mainland to the southeast, a low, dark shape in the sparkling water.
Flann halted and watched it approach—a longboat, propelled by oarsmen.
He frowned. As far as he was aware, the brothers here awaited no visitors.
Turning on his heel, he strode back down the path, returning to the monastery.
The monks had gone back to their gardening.
They bent over their tasks like brown storks, their bald pates gleaming.
Behind them rose the thatched roof of the church, and beyond that the scattering of low buildings of the rest of the complex.
“Father!” Flann called out as he approached.
The prior looked up, a bunch of carrots in his dirt-encrusted hands. “Aye?”
“We’ve got visitors.”
The change in the prior was instantaneous, as was that in the monks surrounding him. Iona was a lonely isle. They’d had problems with raiders in past years. The prior’s face turned grim. He dropped the carrots into the wicker basket at his feet and dusted off his hands. “Let’s see what they want.”
Flann followed the group of monks down to the shore. The Brothers of Iona lived peacefully and went unarmed. However, Flann scooped up a hoe from the garden before he joined them. If these strangers had come with ill intent, someone needed to help defend the monastery.
Last autumn a boatload of raiders had alighted upon these shores.
Flann had rallied the monks and forced some of them to fight, for the raiders had been intent on pillaging their storehouses.
The monks had been shocked by how Flann had handled himself: he had broken one raider’s jaw and crushed the nose of another.
The approaching longboat contained half a dozen men. Their leather vests, fur mantles, and gleaming armrings marked them as Angles from the south. His father’s people. Reaching the shallows, four of the men jumped overboard and dragged the boat to shore.
Flann, who was taller than most of the monks, peered over the heads of his companions, his gaze settling on the dark-haired, robed figure sitting amidships. A priest. Behind him there appeared to be a large object shrouded in leather.
“There’s a man of God with them at least,” one of the brothers muttered. “They haven’t come to rob us.”
Flann did not answer—there was something about the intense way the priest was surveying them that put him on edge. The man’s sharp blue eyes tracked over the group, moving from brother to brother.
He’s looking for someone.
The newcomers pulled the boat out of the water onto the beach. Three of the warriors heaved the object they had brought up onto their shoulders and waded through the sand toward the waiting monks.
The priest led them, his face somber.
The prior stepped forward to meet them. “Good morning. I am Aiden, prior of this monastery. We welcome you to our isle.”
The priest dipped his head. “And morning to you, Father. I am Oswald of Bebbanburg.”
Now that the group stood close to them, the sweet odor of rotting flesh drifted over the shore. One of the younger brothers gagged, and Prior Aidan frowned. “What have you brought here?”
The priest Oswald’s face tightened. “We bring the body of our noble king: Ecgfrith, ruler of Northumbria. We have carried him here for burial, and to see his half-brother, Aldfrith.”
Aldfrith.
Flann tensed, the name slamming into him like a punch to the gut.
He had not heard it in years. His mother had been the last person to call him by it, and even then, it had been in anger as she ranted at him of his father’s cruelty.
That name was part of an identity he had always denied, one he wanted no part of.
A silence settled over the beach, and Oswald cleared his throat. “He goes by the name of Flann Fina. I must speak with him.”
None of the brothers uttered a word; they all knew of Flann’s identity but would let him be the one to reveal it.
Flann inhaled sharply. He had always worried that one day his heritage would catch up with him. He stepped forward, and the monks moved aside to let him pass. When he stood before the priest, he met his eye. “I’m Flann Fina.”
Oswald’s gaze widened, and Flann resisted a rueful smile.
He imagined the priest had expected a different-looking man.
His mother, Fina, had been a dark Irish beauty, but Flann had taken after his father.
He looked like an Angle: tall and blond.
The only physical trait he had taken from his mother was her midnight blue eyes.
“You’re Aldfrith of Northumbria?” Oswald’s gaze swept over him, taking in his homespun tunic, goatskin leggings, and bare feet. Flann knew he would be wondering why this half-brother to the king dressed as a peasant.
“Aye,” Flann replied, his tone cool. “What do you want from me?”
Oswald took a step forward. “Your brother fought the Picts at Nechtansmere and fell. Northumbria no longer rules Pictland—King Bridei does. As Ecgfrith’s brother, you are next in line to the throne.” Oswald paused here. “I’ve come to bring you home.”
A chill settled over Flann, dimming the warmth of the summer’s day.
This peaceful isle was his home. Even if he was uncertain about taking his vows, he wished to be left here in solitude, alone with his chores, his studies, his writing, and his reflection. Here, he lived far from the noise, cruelty, and pettiness of the world.
“I am home,” he replied after a few long moments, although deep in his gut he knew those words would not be enough.
He should have known after his conversation with the prior during the noon meal that today would be a turning point in his life.
Whatever happened from this moment on, things could not stay the same.
Oswald’s answering smile was not without sympathy. “No … my lord. Bebbanburg is where you belong.”