Then, on one crisp winter day, the sound of the monks singing at None drifted to me on the still air, beckoning, reminding me who I had been until very recently. I trudged up the path to the minster itself, the frost-rimed grass crunching underfoot. By the time I reached the buildings, the singing of the liturgy had finished. A few tonsured monks hurried across the open ground, holding their habits tightly about their thin frames, anxious to be back inside. Crossing the vallum, the ditch that encircled the holy site, I strode towards the long building where most of the brothers were headed. I recognised it as the scriptorium and I could already imagine the books inside, the smell of the encaustum and the calf skin vellum. I had not written or even read anything since acting as Mancas’ scribe on the day we arrived. At the thought of writing, my fingers twitched, longing to hold a quill. I had not realised how much I had missed it. Shapes began to form, unbidden in my mind; patterns and animals that I could draw around some of the large first letters on an ornately decorated page. It was as much the beauty of books, as the learning they held that sang to me, and I rushed towards the scriptorium like a sailor floundering in the surf might strive to reach an outcrop of rock.

Before I reached the sanctuary of the scriptorium, a stocky figure emerged, blocking my path. His bald pate was encircled by greying hair. Even though it was cropped short and his tonsure was well shaved, the man’s hair gave the impression of being unruly and untamed. His cheeks and nose were broad and traced with veins. Around his neck hung a thick chain, from which dangled a large, golden crucifix, dotted with garnets like drops of blood. He offered a slight nod of the head, his gaze never leaving mine. He made the obeisance feel somehow defiant.

“Yes?” he said, his tone flat.

I had not expected this confrontational meeting. The song of the brethren had called to me from the church where I had been praying. I had thought I would be welcomed by my Christian brothers.

“My name is Hunlaf,” I said. His expression did not change. “I was at Werceworthe. One of the brethren there, under Abbot Beonna.”

The old monk sniffed.

“I know who you are,” he said. “I am Fridwin, the mynsterfæder here.”

There was a long pause. In the distance, I could hear the hammering from the smiths across the river. From the east came the hiss and sigh of the waves washing the beach. Behind the monk, the dark doorway of the scriptorium yawned. I could see nothing in the gloom, but imagined the bowed heads of the monks, all straining to hear the words being spoken just outside.

“I heard you reciting the prayers of None,” I said, unsure how to proceed.