Easy to spot the scriptorium. Roof’s a sorry sight, holes here and there with rough patching that won’t keep out more than a light shower. Thatching’s been done well but it’s old. Too old to do its job anymore. Long past the time for replacing. Not a high building; ordinary ladder will do. And not so big either. At a pinch, if it stays fine, I could do it on my own by midsummer, even with the creatures on top. Always do those. Maybe it keeps a place safe and maybe that’s only a fancy. Always do them anyway. Looking up at the old roof, I can see them now in my mind: dove at this end, salmon at the far end, and in the middle maybe raven and cat. In that old story of the flood, Noah sent a raven and then a dove. Fish, that’s a sign for Christians. Cat because monks like cats. And I’m back there straightaway, seeing Brother Galen with Bathsheba on his knee, an old scholar with snow-white hair, a cat with fur as dark as night. Brother Galen telling a story, me listening, as still as a stone so I don’t miss a word. Bathsheba purring like a small thunderstorm. On the day, when it happened, when I came to myself and stumbled around looking, looking to see if any of them had got away, if any of them were still alive, the last one I found was Bathsheba. Even she was dead. When I stopped howling, when I was able to think again, the first thing I thought was that the man who took her on would have walked away with scratches all over. He’d crushed her head with his boot. He’d stolen Brother Galen’s book for its jeweled covers. I thought of that man by his campfire, tearing up the pages and feeding them into the flames. One by one, the stories, the lovely little pictures. A cat with wings, gone. An owl riding a dragon, gone. Men with the faces of foxes and badgers, all in a line, dancing. Gone. I thought of that warrior, a Norseman, and knew he wouldn’t remember killing an old man and a cat. For him, for all of them, it was just another raid. They wouldn’t remember me, fighting them off until someone knocked me out cold and I couldn’t fight anymore. They wouldn’t carry it with them the way I do. If they did, how could they go on?

Curses! The bell’s ringing again, and they’re coming out. Got tears all down my face, can’t help myself. One of the brothers spots me and walks over. Tall fellow, dark hair. He’s going to ask what I thought I was doing, walking right in without a by-your-leave, and I’ll have no words. Only sobs, like the monster in the tower.

“Come,” the monk says, pointing to a bench. It’s in a nice spot, under the shade of a plum tree that’ll have a good crop in autumn. “Sit with me awhile. You look disturbed. If you wish, tell me what is troubling you.” Then, as we sit down, “I am Brother Fergal. I look after the garden. And if I may hazard a guess, you are the man with a talent for thatching. Staying in the household of the Lady of Bann.”