There was no answer to that, and I felt my face flush. I could smell the acrid smoke on the breeze and imagined how the fire must be raging at Gyruum for us to see the black column rising from so far away. The scent of the smoke carried with it dark memories. I had witnessed the savagery at Lindisfarnae. I knew the truth; that no amount of prayers would protect against the wrath of the northern heathens.

And yet, a small voice whispered, did not God send the sudden storm that wrecked their ships? Without the squall we might well have been overrun.

“Hail! Fridwin!” shouted Hereward, as we crossed the vallum. “You have nothing to fear from us. We have slain the Norsemen.”

We walked into the open ground between the buildings and looked about us. Some hens scratched at the earth on the far side of the enclosure. Just beyond the ditch that surrounded the monastery, several piglets grunted and squealed in their muddy pen.

“You are safe now,” called out Hereward.

We stood still, unspeaking. The silence was heavy. I could almost taste the fear on the air, mingling with the smoke. And I sensed we were being watched from the shadowed doorways and windows.

Hereward must have felt it too, for he raised a hand for us to remain silent while we waited patiently.

Eventually, tentatively, as if he expected to be struck down at any moment, a scrawny, long-legged monk I had not met before stepped from the scriptorium. He blinked in the bright sunshine. His skin was very pale and the thick black circle of hair on his head stood out starkly, as if he wore a strange cap of beaver fur.

We all turned towards him as he came outside. The monk flinched.

“You are safe,” repeated Hereward. Other monks began to step into the daylight. “Where is Fridwin?”

The tall monk shook his head, then, after a pause he spoke.

“He is not here.” His voice croaked, as if he had forgotten how to speak. I recalled life as a monk and the long days of silence. I could easily imagine this bookish man scratching away at the vellum in the scriptorium, seldom uttering a sound. “My name is Benesing.”

“Where is he?” asked Hereward gruffly.

The monk made the sign of the cross, and several of the other men did the same.

“He went to Gyruum, to speak to Abbot Ethelbald.”

Hereward sighed, casting a glance at the smoke over the northern minster.

“Do you have healers here?”

Benesing inclined his head, as if embarrassed by the question.

“The Lord has blessed us with some skills in that regard,” he said.

Hereward nodded curtly.

“There are some injured men across the river. Go and tend to them.”

“We will,” replied Benesing, seeming pleased to be told what to do. “Alfhun, Sibbi,” he called out, “fetch clean linen, honey and birch bark.”