fingers, revealing a richly colored tapestry of red and sunset-yellow tiles around the shape of a cross. The Coptic carpet style was reminiscent of Islamic prayer rugs, and miniature birds lay around the edge, beaks clutching each other’s feet in a never-ending spiral. The letters at the beginning of the Gospels were illuminated in the colors of turquoise, ochre and plum, each one a world of fantastical beasts and swirling heraldic devices.
“It looks like there is other writing under the main text,” Blake said.
“It’s a translation,” Morgan pointed, careful not to touch the page. “Old English was added between the lines of Latin, which makes it one of the oldest surviving translations of the Gospels into English. I wish we had time to study it properly, but we should really just check the back page. A colophon was added after the Viking invasion.”
She slowly turned the pages, glimpsing paintings of the gospel writers transcribing the words of the Lord while angels trumpeted behind them, until finally, the last page was revealed. After the glorious extravagance and riot of color throughout the book, the colophon was an anticlimax, a page of black text, with the translation underneath and a column of text in a more casual hand, almost running off the edge of the page.
“It’s a list of who helped in the making of the Gospels, but there’s some text that scholars have struggled to translate.” She pointed. “Right here. It’s only a few lines.”
“Perhaps if I try my kind of reading, I’ll be able to get a sense of what the scribe was getting at.” Blake pulled one of the white gloves off. “Although to be honest, I’ve not had much luck reading manuscripts, as they usually have so many people involved in making them.”
“This one is different,” Morgan said. “It’s supposed to be the work of one man, attributed to Bishop Eadfrith of Lindisfarne.”
“We might have a chance then. Keep an eye on the door, will you? I don’t want to suffer the wrath of the librarian if I’m caught touching this book. I’ve had quite enough violence for one day.”
Blake laid his bare fingers lightly on the edge of the handwritten text and closed his eyes.
Chapter 9
THE CRY OF SEAGULLS pierced the veil of Blake’s consciousness and the smell of the sea made him long for ocean winds. He opened his eyes to see the ruins of Lindisfarne Priory. Cottages still burned and the remains of slaughtered animals and men lay in the streets, in the direct aftermath of the Viking attack. Blake felt the outrage of the monk who held the Gospels tightly to his breast, and the grief that washed over his soul at what must surely be the loss of what he called family.
“Come, brother.” The words were rough and cut with emotion. “We can do no more here. We must get word to Eilean Idhe, for that witch and her pagan protectors were searching for something and I’m afraid what they seek has been long hidden there. If we hurry, we can make the tidal crossing and begin our long journey before the waters get too high.”
Blake turned to see another monk by his side, pulling the cowl up over his tonsured head to keep the wind from his weathered face, or perhaps to hide his tears. The land had been etched in his visage and his eyes were a deep brown, like the earth beneath their feet. He strode off, and Blake lengthened his stride to keep up, feeling a strange sense of the physical body he inhabited albeit briefly. The man who clutched the Gospels to his chest was muscular yet wiry, with strength in his limbs and a clarity of purpose that made every step a statement of survival despite persecution.
As dusk began to fall, they emerged at a headland and Blake saw the crossing. A narrow strip of land ran from the island to the shore while the ocean lapped on either side, each minute reclaiming the wet ground for the sea. Lindisfarne was cut off from the mainland for all but a short time every day, a separate
“It looks like there is other writing under the main text,” Blake said.
“It’s a translation,” Morgan pointed, careful not to touch the page. “Old English was added between the lines of Latin, which makes it one of the oldest surviving translations of the Gospels into English. I wish we had time to study it properly, but we should really just check the back page. A colophon was added after the Viking invasion.”
She slowly turned the pages, glimpsing paintings of the gospel writers transcribing the words of the Lord while angels trumpeted behind them, until finally, the last page was revealed. After the glorious extravagance and riot of color throughout the book, the colophon was an anticlimax, a page of black text, with the translation underneath and a column of text in a more casual hand, almost running off the edge of the page.
“It’s a list of who helped in the making of the Gospels, but there’s some text that scholars have struggled to translate.” She pointed. “Right here. It’s only a few lines.”
“Perhaps if I try my kind of reading, I’ll be able to get a sense of what the scribe was getting at.” Blake pulled one of the white gloves off. “Although to be honest, I’ve not had much luck reading manuscripts, as they usually have so many people involved in making them.”
“This one is different,” Morgan said. “It’s supposed to be the work of one man, attributed to Bishop Eadfrith of Lindisfarne.”
“We might have a chance then. Keep an eye on the door, will you? I don’t want to suffer the wrath of the librarian if I’m caught touching this book. I’ve had quite enough violence for one day.”
Blake laid his bare fingers lightly on the edge of the handwritten text and closed his eyes.
Chapter 9
THE CRY OF SEAGULLS pierced the veil of Blake’s consciousness and the smell of the sea made him long for ocean winds. He opened his eyes to see the ruins of Lindisfarne Priory. Cottages still burned and the remains of slaughtered animals and men lay in the streets, in the direct aftermath of the Viking attack. Blake felt the outrage of the monk who held the Gospels tightly to his breast, and the grief that washed over his soul at what must surely be the loss of what he called family.
“Come, brother.” The words were rough and cut with emotion. “We can do no more here. We must get word to Eilean Idhe, for that witch and her pagan protectors were searching for something and I’m afraid what they seek has been long hidden there. If we hurry, we can make the tidal crossing and begin our long journey before the waters get too high.”
Blake turned to see another monk by his side, pulling the cowl up over his tonsured head to keep the wind from his weathered face, or perhaps to hide his tears. The land had been etched in his visage and his eyes were a deep brown, like the earth beneath their feet. He strode off, and Blake lengthened his stride to keep up, feeling a strange sense of the physical body he inhabited albeit briefly. The man who clutched the Gospels to his chest was muscular yet wiry, with strength in his limbs and a clarity of purpose that made every step a statement of survival despite persecution.
As dusk began to fall, they emerged at a headland and Blake saw the crossing. A narrow strip of land ran from the island to the shore while the ocean lapped on either side, each minute reclaiming the wet ground for the sea. Lindisfarne was cut off from the mainland for all but a short time every day, a separate
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