Then the sword sliced down. I screamed. And I saw nothing.

Not far from Bebbanburg is a cave where the Christians claim Saint Cuthbert’s body was hidden when the Danes sacked Lindisfarena and the monks fled with the saint’s corpse. Others say that Saint Cuthbert lived in the cave for a time, but whichever story is true, whether Saint Cuthbert was alive or dead, the Christians revere the cave. Sometimes, when hunting deer or boar, I will pass the cave and see the crosses made from twisted grass or reeds that are left by people praying for the saint’s help. It is a sacred place and I hate it. We call it a cave, but in truth it is a massive ledge of rock jutting from a hillside and supported by one small stone pillar. A man can shelter from a storm beneath that ledge. Perhaps Saint Cuthbert did, but that is not why I hate the place.

When I was a child, maybe six or seven years old, my father had taken me to Saint Cuthbert’s cave and forced me to crawl under that vast ledge of rock. He had five men with him, all warriors. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said, then taken a war hammer from one of his men and struck the pillar a great ringing blow.

I had wanted to scream in terror, imagining the massive rock crushing me, but knew I would be beaten bloody if I made a sound. I cringed, but stayed silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ my father had said again, then using all his strength he hit the pillar a second time. ‘One day, boy,’ he had continued, ‘this pillar will crumble and the rock will fall. Maybe that day is today.’ He hammered it again, and again I kept silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said a third time, then mounted his horse and rode away, leaving two men to watch me. ‘Don’t talk to the boy,’ he had ordered them, ‘and don’t let him leave,’ nor did they.

Father Beocca, my tutor, was sent to rescue me at nightfall and discovered me shaking with fear. ‘Your father does it,’ Beocca had explained to me, ‘to teach you to conquer your fear. But you were in no danger. I prayed to the blessed Saint Cuthbert.’

That night and for many nights after I dreamed of that great lump of rock crushing me. It did not fall fast in my dreams, but came slowly, inch by ponderous inch, the stone groaning as it descended so inexorably, and in my dream I was powerless to move. I would see the rock coming, know that I was going to be slowly crushed to death, and I would wake screaming.

I had not had that nightmare for years, but I had it that day, and again I woke screaming, only now I was in a farm cart, cushioned on straw and cloaks, my body covered by a dark red cloak. ‘All’s well, lord,’ a woman said. She was riding in the cart with me as it lurched along the rough road to Werlameceaster.