Weeks have gone by since I last took up a quill. In spite of my infirmity, I am pleased to find my hand has not forgotten how to form letters. The words on the vellum may not be as perfectly aligned and bold as my writing once was, but they are clear enough and still better than many a scribe’s scratchings. My eyes, though, water constantly, and I need to dab at them to prevent the tears running down my cheeks like a man grieving for a loved one. But of course, I am mourning. I weep not just for the loss of all those I held dear, but selfishly, for my youth and the time that has trickled through my hands, like the fine burning sands of ar-Raqqah or the cool waters of the mighty Volga.

But I must not allow myself to become maudlin. Our Heavenly Father has granted me more time, so it is my duty to put it to good use. For many days, I believed I would never be able to return to telling my tale. I thought the Lord might take me. Or that the Almighty had forsaken me, and perhaps the Devil would come for my soul, as I lay trembling and moaning alone in my cell. I cursed my weakness, and on more than one occasion I needed to beg forgiveness, not just of God, but of His young servant, Coenric, who brought me food and tended to my needs. Coenric came to me every day. He spooned thin pottage into my mouth when I had no hunger, and he held me steady so that I could piss and shit in a pot, even when I was too weak to rise from my stinking pallet. The sallow-faced lad put up stoically with my whimpering fury, cleaning me, feeding me, and fetching more of the potion of woundwort, mugwort and wormwood that the old cunning woman from the village made to blunt the talons of the beast that scratched at my innards.

Coenric sat beside me as the foul liquid dulled my pain. Outside my cell, the long warm days of summer became ever shorter, as the year slipped inexorably towards the darkness of winter. My aged ears strained to hear the whistling song of the redwings and the chirrups of the fieldfares as the summer grew old, and I often wished that Coenric would sit in silence. Instead, he read from the Scriptures and prayed. On the few occasions when Abbot Criba came to visit me, the boy explained that he was doing all he could, and that I needed rest. He would offer me a small smile as he ushered the abbot out of my noisome room, and this lifted my spirits somewhat. Coenric knows how I detest the supercilious abbot. If Criba should ever read these pages, I can barely imagine how furious he would be.