“But we warned him this might happen,” I said, recalling how the red-faced abbot had screamed at us, as the minster burnt and his brethren lay dead. “We offered our aid.”

“Men seldom admit their own failings. It is ever thus. When a tiny child learns to take its first steps and then seeks to run, his mother will warn him that he will trip. And when he does and barks his knee, who does he blame? Himself? No, he screams at his mother. She told him what would happen, so it must be her fault.”

I wondered whether Bealdwulf had children of his own. He was older than the rest of the men who had come from Bebbanburg. He was broad of chest, and his face was scarred and often dour, but he was thoughtful and had shown me nothing but kindness. During that long hot afternoon at Gyruum, he had helped Gersine and me with the hard work of digging graves for the fallen monks. I realised now with a start, that although I had known him for months, I knew next to nothing about the warrior. He reminded me of Drosten in that regard. Some men rarely speak of themselves. Such men are like oysters, clammed shut until, from time to time, they open up and offer a pearl from within their shell.

Bealdwulf had barely spoken all that afternoon. None of us had. We had put our heads down and pushed the wooden blades of our shovels into the sandy soil. The sun was hot on our necks and the heat from the dying fires warmed our cheeks. Soot, smoke and ash stung our eyes and caught in our throats. After Fridwin’s outraged outburst, I wanted nothing more than to focus my energies on a practical task, away from the dazed, hollow-eyed faces of the men and women who had survived the attack. The stink of burning, and the sounds of lamentations from the survivors conjured up memories of Lindisfarnae and Werceworthe. How many more monasteries would be sacked? How many more innocents defiled, murdered or enslaved? I’d glanced at the smouldering remains of the scriptorium. How much more knowledge and learning would be destroyed?

“You should not have come here!” Fridwin had yelled at me, his soot-stained face streaked with tears.

“We come to offer our aid,” Hereward had said, speaking in a soft, soothing tone. But his words did nothing to placate the abbot’s fury.

“No!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Look! Look at what they have done.” His words caught in his throat as he sobbed. He spread his hands wide to encompass the terrible destruction of the minster. “You,” he shouted suddenly, his voice as harsh and loud as a slap. He stared into my face and I was shocked to see genuine hatred there. “You brought this upon us. You turned your back on the Lord and now you reap what you sow.”