“Taken far away,” Scomric said, his shoulders slumping. “It was God who brought the book to me, but in the battle between the light and the darkness, the Devil never rests. Before God showed me the way to escape my bonds of slavery, Satan sent a man to the hall of our Norse master. They are heathens, the people of this land, uneducated and uncouth. But they have a knack for three things. Battle, sailing and trade. It is astounding to me that such…” He paused, searching for a term that would sum up these people he so despised. “That such barbarians,” he said at last, “should have fine wine from the sunny hills of the south of Frankia. You can find here cinnamon, cloves and cardamom from beyond great Byzantion, silver coins from ar-Raqqah, olive oil and sweet dates from Al-Andalus. These Norsemen’s ships can reach as far as the world is wide, it seems. But I was still shocked when a man came to the hall where Chlotar and I were prisoners. He was dark-skinned from the land of the Moors far, far to the south. He was a heathen, of course, but he was a learned man, and I watched him as he conversed with our master. He spoke with great deference, but I could see that he felt nothing but contempt for these people. They were too stupid to see it, or perhaps they did not care, for he paid them good silver for several treasures he unearthed from things they had plundered from minsters in Frankia and Britain. He bought a bejewelled pendant that contained a thorn, from the very crown Christ wore during his passion. There was also a silver reliquary that housed the finger of Saint Walaric. They were pretty enough, but of course, the power they contained was far more valuable than the silver. When the Moor asked about books, my master did not understand to begin with. But when the foreigner explained that they were leaves of parchment where knowledge is recorded in writing, he remembered the stack of vellum I had taken. He had already sold the jewels from the cover, but now he saw a way to profit from the pages that had seemed meaningless to him.” Scomric grew still and quiet for a time then. He stared into his cup, lost in his dark memories. I felt Chlotar’s presence close behind us, and I looked around at him. I was met with a sneer from the Frank. The hairs on my neck prickled and I longed to be able to stand, to put some space between myself, Scomric and Chlotar. But I knew that if I moved, the Frank would only push me back onto the bench, so I remained where I was, watching and listening, my panic building within me.

Scomric rubbed a hand across his face and sighed.