A handful of monks remained outside and took those who had not followed the bishop on a tour of the island and the monastery. “You’re welcome to explore our home,” one of the monks told the group that Osana now stood at the back of. “No doors are closed to you on this day.”
The monks led them into the monastery and began the tour at enclosures where goats lay chewing the cud and fowl pecked for grain in the dirt. They then led them to gardens, protected from the elements by high stone walls, where rows of neatly tended cabbages, kale, onions, and turnips grew.
The monks started to explain their growing practices at length, and after a while, Osana wandered off. She felt the need to be alone now, to discover Lindisfarena at her own pace.
She walked through the deserted complex: past a network of low-slung thatched dormitories where the monks presumably slept, between a scattering of storage huts, and out through a narrow gate at the highest point of the promontory.
Standing upon the edge, Osana’s gaze traveled south to where Bebbanburg’s bulk shadowed the sky, smoke from the cookfires rising high. On the rocks below her, she spied a cluster of puffins. A smile curved her lips as she admired their fat bodies, large red feet, and waddling gait. They looked like such happy birds.
The wind gusted here, and so Osana did not linger. Wrapping her fur cloak about her, she turned and re-entered the monastery, circuiting round to the largest buildings in the heart of it.
She entered a large feasting hall, which was empty at this time of day, although the sulfurous odor of cooking cabbage, onion, and turnip drifted in from where a pottage was most likely simmering over the fire. It would be a simple noon meal, even today.
Osana wandered out of the feasting hall and crossed the courtyard, stopping before a heavy wooden door. An annex came off the side of the church, and she wondered what lay inside.
The monk had said no doors were closed to them today; yet even so, Osana hesitated. She did not want to intrude. However, curiosity got the better of her, and she pushed the door open and went inside.
Closing the door gently behind her, she entered a long, windowless chamber illuminated by a row of cressets burning along the stone and mud wall. The air smelled of pitch and something else—a scent that Osana did not recognize.
Below the row of cressets ran a long bench with many low stools under it. And there, spread out like the wings of multi-colored butterflies, were sheets of the most beautiful illustrations Osana had ever seen.
She realized then that she had stumbled upon the monastery’s scriptorium.
Her breath hitched as she moved forward to the end nearest and took a closer look. She had admired Aldfrith’s flowing handwriting, and had marveled at the book he had shown her, but the illustrations here made that volume look crudely drawn.
Osana could not believe that a man had crafted these: the colors were even deeper than in nature, the calligraphy exquisite. She recognized a few of the letters, for she had not forgotten her one lesson with Aldfrith. She had practiced writing her name in the dirt in the orchard outside the Great Tower when she was alone. It frustrated her that she could not read the stories upon these sheets of vellum.
She recognized a few of the illustrations, for she knew the story of Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection. Yet some of the drawings mystified her.
Captivated, Osana slowly moved down the bench, drinking the pages in. She was so enraptured that she did not hear the gentle swish of the door opening behind her. It was the draft on the back of her neck that made her glance over her shoulder.
Aldfrith stood in the doorway.
Slowly, he closed the door behind him. “The scriptorium is a private place, Osana,” he greeted her. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Apologies, sire,” she replied. “The monk giving us the tour said we could go where we wished. I didn’t know this room was forbidden.”
“The items in here are precious … irreplaceable.”
“I know.” She glanced back at the page she had just been studying. It showed a man, swathed in wine-red robes, sitting upon a stool with a blue cushion. A halo around his head marked him as a saint, and a golden-winged lion leaped over him. “I’ve never seen the like. How do they produce such colors?”
“Minerals and vegetable extracts, I believe.”
He moved across the room toward her, stopping at her side. “That’s the evangelist, Mark. He was represented as a lion, symbolizing the Resurrection of Christ.”
“He almost looks alive,” Osana breathed. She resisted the urge to reach out and trace the picture with her fingertip. “How does one learn to draw like this?”
“The monks here dedicate their life to it … and many will go to their grave still learning the craft.”
Osana was suddenly aware of how close he was standing next to her. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of leather, and the warm spice of his skin. Osana’s breathing constricted. She wanted to drown in that scent. Tamping down her reaction to him, for it could lead nowhere good, she glanced up, meeting Aldfrith’s eye.
“I was rude to you a moment ago,” he said, his expression achingly serious. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize.” Osana forced a brightness into her tone she did not feel. “I should have asked before entering the scriptorium. I’ve always been too curious. My father once told me it was an ill-trait in a woman.”
Aldfrith smiled then, an expression that lit up the dim space. “He was wrong … it’s a sign of a sharp mind. A good thing in a woman.”
Osana huffed. “My husband would have disagreed with you there. He said I’d have been happier if I’d been born dull-witted.”
