To his mother’s people, Flann would always be the Angle’s bastard. Even those who loved him, like Daragh, must sometimes look upon his pale hair with distaste. It was a reminder of the man who had broken Fina’s heart.
Daragh’s men followed in a group behind Flann. They would all stay overnight in the monastery before, weather permitting, leaving with the dawn. They struggled up the shore, boots sinking into the pale sand. Flann kept his gaze up, searching for any sign of life.
A moment later he spied a group of figures, torches aloft, cresting the hill before them. Monks garbed in long dark robes, their hair shaved into tonsures, approached.
Flann’s pulse quickened, and for the first time since leaving Éirinn, he doubted his decision.
Daragh had spoken true; he had decided in haste, in an attempt to run from pain.
Flann’s panic was fleeting though, as the hurt that had driven him across the water slammed into him once more.
Suddenly it hurt to breathe.
No—this is the right decision.He needed to re-forge himself in this place, a harsh environment that would demand much of him. He would dedicate himself to a higher purpose. He would make himself strong; he would never let such pain in again.
Daragh glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the wind. His gaze met Flann’s and held for a heartbeat. “Are you ready?”
Flann dragged in a deep breath, forcing down the nerves. “Aye.”
“Very well … let us go to greet them.”
Daragh turned away and resumed his climb. Head bowed against the wind, Flann followed his uncle up the rise to meet the monks.
Ten years later …
Chapter One
The Time Has Come
Summer, 685 AD
The Isle of Iona, Pictland (Scotland)
the CLANG ofan iron bell echoed across the monastery. The noise jarred in the peace of the warm morning, carrying far over the surrounding sea.
Flann lowered his hammer and straightened up from where he had been bashing nails into a door. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the monks in the fields below down their hoes, rakes, and spades and make their way toward the church. The bell was calling them to None. It was a short service; soon they would all gather in the feasting hall for the noon meal.
Flann would join them too.
Glancing back at the door, he cast an eye over his work. A sense of satisfaction filtered over him—he had done a good job. The door had blown off its hinges in a storm a few days earlier. This storehouse held the monastery’s most precious food: cheese and salted meats which they kept for special occasions. It was important to keep it properly sealed.
Flann wiped a forearm across his brow. He then slowly, sinuously, stretched his long body, enjoying the feel of warmth on his skin. He raked his fingers through his short blond hair, allowing a sea breeze to feather against his scalp.
It was a fine morning to be outside, and Flann was almost tempted not to retreat indoors after the noon meal. Instead, he could take a walk along the coast, past nesting puffins and seals basking on the sun-warmed rocks.
Only, Father Aiden had asked him to copy a manuscript this afternoon. He would feel as if he was shirking. A pity though, for even in summer, this isle was hit by prevailing winds that made days like this rare.
Collecting his tools, Flann walked down the path from where the cluster of storehouses sat upon a rise and made his way toward the heart of the monastery. A sense of well-being settled upon Flann as he walked. His life here was a simple one, yet these days he found a quiet, steady contentment in it.
Flann walked past neatly tended beds where a riot of onions, kale, turnip, and carrots grew, and entered a long, windowless structure sitting behind the church. Indoors, a huge iron pot hung over a hearth at one end, where a thick turnip pottage simmered. Before going to None, the monks had laid the table ready, but—as was his habit—Flann finished off the preparations.
He retrieved a heavy loaf of coarse bread from the center of the table and cut it into slices: one for each monk. Then he set bowls of cheese curds, freshly made that morning with goat’s milk, along the table—one bowl to be shared between four.
This was a typical noon meal here. Upon his arrival at Iona a decade earlier, Flann had struggled to adjust to the frugal diet and the lack of meat. He had spent his first few months constantly hungry. These days though, he was used to the fare.
Flann was collecting the earthen bowls for the pottage when the first of the monks entered the feasting hall, dipping his head as he entered.
“Good day, Brother Euan,” Flann greeted him.
