Conqueror

XVIII

As they reached the island Belisarius saw that the raiders were already at work in the village. The people fled, running north, men with bundles of belongings, women with children in their arms, others helping the frail and elderly, some even trying to drive livestock ahead of them. Two bright red splashes showed where people had already been killed. And as Belisarius watched, the modest square houses of the village blossomed into flame, one by one. When Guthfrith's big house burned down the gaunt outline of the sacred tree was revealed.

Belisarius felt outraged that people who had treated him with such hospitality should be treated this way. Were human lives worth no more than this? But anger was useless. He tried to stay calm, to think.

He beckoned to Macson. 'Come. If we hurry we can still reach the monastery before the raiders get there.'

'Good plan,' Macson growled, sarcastic. But he followed Belisarius's lead.

They reached the monastery. There was nobody to be seen. No doubt the monks were all in the church, engaged in one of their interminable services. They probably didn't even know that the raiders had come.

For the first time Belisarius looked at the monastery as a warrior might. The low earthen bank which surrounded it would keep out stray cattle, but would not impede the raiders. The buildings, even the wooden church, would be no use as shelters. Only the monks' squat beehive cells, built of stone, might withstand a raiders' torching. And so unusual was their shape that perhaps there was a chance the raiders might dismiss them as food stores and ignore them altogether.

He hurried to the cells, offering up a silent prayer that similar thoughts had occurred to the sensible Aelfric.

At Boniface's cell he pushed at the wooden door. It felt as if it had been blocked from behind. He rapped on the wood. 'Aelfric, Boniface? Are you in there? It's me, Belisarius.'

There was a scraping. Then the door opened, to reveal Aelfric's oval face. A lamp flickered in the darkness behind her, and she blinked in the bright daylight. 'Belisarius, thank God.'

'Is Boniface with you?'

'Yes. We went first to the library – we have the Menologium, the oldest copy.'

A thin voice called querulously from the darkness. 'Is that you, Roman? Let me go to the church.'

'There are men here,' Belisarius said heavily, 'intent on killing you, old man.'

'That's no good reason to abandon God's worship.'

Aelfric said unsteadily, 'I had to drag him in here, to stop him going to the service. God forgive me.'

Belisarius touched her shoulder. 'You did the right thing.'

Boniface came shuffling to the door. 'If you won't let me go to the church, then at least we must warn the abbot.'

'No. The raiders will concentrate on the church, the library. They may not touch these cells at all. We will wait until the danger is past. And in the meantime-well, we will pray for deliverance. We are different breeds of Christian, but we must all seek the mercy of the same God. Aelfric, show me how you blocked the door-'

'No,' Boniface cried. Aelfric tried to soothe him, but he shrugged her off. 'We have to warn the abbot.'

'Please, Domnus,' Belisarius said. 'Stay and lead us in prayer-'

'Let me go.'

Belisarius had rarely heard such authority.

Macson shrugged. 'Let the old fool go. What does it matter? One more dead monk-'

'I will go,' Belisarius snapped. Nobody spoke. Macson looked away. Aelfric's eyes, adapted to the dark, were huge and fearful. 'Aelfric, keep them here. And block the door after me.' He turned away, not looking back, ignoring Boniface's cries of protest.

Trying to spy out the raiders, he crept to a scrap of high ground, ducking behind buildings and walls to keep out of sight.

They were already all over the monastery, he saw, tall, muscular men in leather tunics, like vicious, destroying angels. He was too late to warn the monks, even supposing they might have listened to him any more than Boniface had.

And as he watched, helpless, the raiders broke open the library and the scriptorium. They didn't bother with the doors; they just smashed in the flimsy walls of wood and daub with their axes. There was little to interest them in the scriptorium, and the workbenches and vellum frames, the pots of ink, the jars of quills were thrown into the dirt.

In the library they pulled down shelves piled high with books, scattering their loads on the ground. With an aching heart Belisarius saw his own trunk broken open by a barbarian's blade, his precious stock dumped out and filleted. The raiders stripped out the more obviously precious items, like the glorious gospels with their leather bindings crusted with jewels. But there were books in there, Belisarius knew, of far greater value than such baubles: ancient literature, some of it dating back to the days of Britannia, and more recent literature from the British provincial states – some of it the only copies in existence. But the raiders simply kicked the books they didn't want on to a rough bonfire, and black smoke rose as skin pages crisped and curled. It was the end of the work of centuries. How fragile were the products of civilisation, before these men with their iron and their fire and their dark ignorance.

Now the raiders closed in on the church. Again they simply bludgeoned down the walls. The monks, shocked, came swarming out like black-robed termites, and the raiders waded among them, their shining axe blades swinging like scythes. As blood splashed, a brilliant, terrible red, the monks' squeals of terror turned to pain. Many of the monks died in their church, unwilling to leave the sacred ground. Others fled the closing circle of axes, only to be pursued and cut down in turn.

After a time, when it was clear there would be no organised resistance, the raiders began to play. They stripped off the monks' habits, exposing bodies white as grubs, and made them run for their lives. They chased others into the sea, where they would surely drown. Some of the younger monks were rounded up like cattle. Perhaps they would be carted away into slavery, their days of calm and order in the monastery a distant dream. There were crueller games yet. One raider forced a novice to bend forward over the altar, and briskly raped him. The raider slit the novice's throat in the very moment he spent himself. Another held down an old man and forced a crucifix down his throat, until he choked. Belisarius thought that was the end of the abbot, that brisk, commanding, cynical manager of men.

While this went on the looting of the church proceeded systematically. The raiders stripped out chandeliers and lanterns and the jewel-encrusted shrine, the altar services of silver and gold, and heaped it all up on the dirt outside.

One frail monk sprawled over a wooden box, hugging it. This was the coffin containing the relics of Saint Cuthbert – and the monk who was spending his life to save it was Dom Wilfrid, the weak and foolish lover of Elfgar. Of course his efforts only served to draw the attention of the raiders, and an axe removed his head as casually as Belisarius might pluck a leaf from a tree. But when the raiders opened the blood-splashed box to find it contained nothing but dusty old bones, they abandoned it. Perhaps the saint who had already weathered centuries would survive this day of terrible destruction.

There was nothing Belisarius could do here. Even to watch this desecration and slaughter shamed him. As the wreckage of the church's walls leapt eagerly into flames, he turned away to make his way back to the cells.