Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE) by J.F. Penn Page A

notebooks to an eleventh-century manuscript of Beowulf , the handwritten pages damaged by fire. Thomas Hardy’s original manuscript of Tess of the D’Urbervilles was here, his fine cross-hatched edits still evident, as well as more modern treasures like the lyrics to The Beatles’ “Yesterday.”  
    A huge globe dominated one area of the room, a baroque vision of the heavens painted with ancient constellation figures. Pegasus, the winged horse, galloped next to the Great Bear, paws uplifted to stride across the globe. Nearby stood the collection of Christian manuscripts, most illuminated by the hands of monks long dead.  
    Morgan couldn’t help but look into the case holding the Codex Sinaiticus, her thoughts going back to St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai, where it had originally been kept. Written over 1600 years ago, the handwritten manuscript with heavily corrected text was the Christian Bible in Greek, containing the oldest complete copy of the New Testament. Pages of the text had been sewn into other book bindings, and a fragment had pointed her and Khal to a new location for the Ark of the Covenant not so long ago. Despite the dangers of ARKANE, Morgan lived on the edge of the boundary between the ancient world and the modern, and there was nowhere else she would rather work.
    A librarian waved at them from a side door.  
    “Are you from ARKANE?” the woman asked. Morgan nodded. “The Lindisfarne Gospels are normally kept on display here, but they’re currently resting.”
    “Resting?” Blake asked.  
    The librarian gave him a smile as she touched her hair, her eyes twinkling more as she addressed him directly. Blake’s injuries only seemed to heighten his good looks.  
    “Even though the lights are dimmed in here, the manuscripts are still affected so we like to give them a rest in the dark now and then. Our aim at the British Library is to make sure these treasures last another thousand years for everyone to enjoy. Normally we wouldn’t allow anything to disturb them, but you seem to have a special pass. We’ve just retrieved the Gospels from their resting place and they’re ready for you to view. Follow me.”
    The woman pushed open a door leading away from the Ritblat Gallery, and walked ahead of them down a short corridor. At a doorway, she turned, pulling two pairs of white gloves wrapped in plastic from her pocket.  
    “These are mandatory for you to wear when handling the manuscript.” She frowned, noticing Blake’s own gloves for the first time. He turned his hands so she couldn’t see the blood stains.
    “Of course,” Morgan said, taking them and handing a pair to Blake.  
    They pulled off the plastic and put the gloves on, Blake hiding his own stained pair in his pocket for the meantime. When she was satisfied they were appropriately attired, the librarian pushed open the door.  
    “I’ve been told to leave you to it, but I’ll just be down the hall if you need anything.”
    Morgan and Blake stepped into the room, a stark white cube containing nothing but a white table with a bookrest, and on it, The Lindisfarne Gospels. The book was illuminated with artistic calligraphy and painted scenes, interweaving the cultures that influenced England at the time it was written. There were Egyptian Coptic cross-carpet pages, exotic iconography from the Eastern Mediterranean, Celtic spiral patterns, Greek Byzantine lettering and even the angular shapes of Germanic runes. Created in the late seventh century at Lindisfarne Priory, the book was considered to be one of the nation’s leading artistic treasures, as well as an icon of faith.  
    “It’s beautiful,” Blake said, bending to look at the cover more closely. Gold and silver strips formed a border around the edge, each with a precious stone in the middle. The center panel was a deep crimson inlaid with Celtic woven patterns in precious metal, a fitting cover for such a holy book.  
    Morgan opened the first page with gloved