“That’s not much.” I regretted this as soon as I’d said it; Flannan was so proud of the discovery. “It’s interesting, of course, especially when we have so little to go on. But it might be a discussion of local landmarks, or a guide for finding the way between monasteries, perhaps intended for wandering scholars to copy and take away with them.”

“Nah,” put in Grim. “Code, isn’t it? Why would you bother with a code for something like that?”

“I believe I can decipher and translate the document, given time,” said Flannan, as if we had not spoken. “Brother Ríordán is zealous in his desire to protect his treasures at all costs; I am not sure he will be happy about my working from the original. The script is very small and rather untidy, but the document is not especially long. I’m hoping he’ll allow me to make a quick copy, verbatim, then work from that, so he can keep the old document in safe storage.”

“How long will this copying take?” asked Geiléis. “And the translation? The information will be useless to us after Midsummer Eve.”

I glanced at her. Her cheeks were still flushed. “There’s always next midsummer,” I said. “If the creature is still in the tower then, I imagine you’d want to try again.”

Geiléis made a gesture, a quick, dismissive sweep of the hand. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Of course, Mistress Blackthorn.” The tone was placatory. “Master Flannan, how long before you can bring us a full translation?”

“One day for the copying. I’ll do it in wax, not with pen and ink. The translation—it depends how quickly I can work out the code. Once that’s done, I’ll render the text into its plain form and then attempt to translate it. The result may be as much informed guesswork as anything. I’ll do the best I can. There don’t seem to be any Armorican brethren at St. Olcan’s. If indeed that is what the tongue is. I assume this was written by a monk in times long ago.”

“Written and set away in secret,” I said. “Extremely secret. First the coding, then sealing it in a box and hiding it in the wall. I wonder why anyone would do that? It seems rather excessive.”

“Raids.” Grim’s tone was like the brush of a cold hand. All eyes turned toward him. “Norsemen,” he said. “Common target, houses of prayer like St. Olcan’s. Silverware to steal. And books.”

“Books? What, the Norsemen like to have a good read between their acts of violence?”

“For the covers,” Grim said flatly. “Set with a fortune in jewels, some of them. Rip the boards off, prize out the stones, throw the pages on the fire.” He seemed about to say more, but fell abruptly silent, staring into his ale cup. His hands were clenched around it; the knuckles showed white. This had brought back the past; that was written all over him. This manuscript, or perhaps the monastery in general, had awoken something deeply painful. And I wouldn’t be able to ask him about it later, not straight-out. The unspoken agreement between us would forbid it. I willed him to stay strong, even as my heart bled for him. I knew how he felt: as if the layer of protection he had set around his memory had been flayed off, exposing the wound beneath.