Caergybi Monastery, Angelsey, Wales. 917 A.D.
NORTHERN WALES WAS HOST to some of the most remote and wild country in the land. Caer Gybi, on the far northern tip of the island that was the dot at the top of that wild land, was probably even more wild, which was why the monastery had been built there. It discouraged all but the most ardent of visitors, leaving the brothers to tend to their devotions and their gardens in peace.
Brother Eifion was glad his duties did not include tending the vegetables, for at this time of year the chill winds swept across the open sea to whistle along the quay and swirl coldly across the island, leaving tender green shoots frozen in their wake. It was not enjoyable to be outside, even in the middle of the day.
His love for God was better expressed through the use of his skills as a scribe and illustrator instead, such as the tedious manuscript he was currently copying. He offered up a silent prayer to God for his impatience and decided that he would work through the night to repay his selfishness. He turned away from the window, preparing to settle at the high desk and begin work once more.
There were three people standing on the other side of the chamber. They were holding each other, their knees bent, as many people did when they were standing on the deck of the boats that crossed over from the mainland, especially on days when the sea was high, like today.
One of the three was a woman. She was of surpassing beauty, with a firm line to her jaw and clear green eyes. Her clothes were those of a lady of rank. Eifion tried to look away from her, for he had not seen a woman for many years and the sight of one now reminded him of his vows in an uncomfortable way. Yet it was difficult to pull his gaze from her.
She was looking around the room with curiosity.
“Who are you?” Eifion said. “What are you doing here, and how did you find your way into the monastery? There are doors and barriers—”
The taller of the two men, who had remarkable eyes, too, gave him a smile, showing very white teeth. “I have been searching for you, Brother Eifion, for many months now. I wanted to talk to you about that.” He nodded toward the book sitting propped open on the high, sloped desk, showing the incomplete page.
“Nennius?” Eifion frowned. “I am making a copy.”
“Yes, I know. I am a scholar of sorts myself and I know his work. I have seen other copies, including one that has made its way to Constantinople.”
Eifion drew in a breath in surprise and delight. “Constantinople! Constantine was ours, a Briton, and he became Emperor of the greatest city in the world.”
“Indeed,” the dark haired man said gravely. “That is in part why I am here. There is a story in the copy of Nennius I read in Constantinople that no other copy here in the west seems to have. I wanted to see if your copy would include it.”
“I have copied every story that Nennius included in his history,” Eifion said stoutly. He was on firm ground, confident that his copying skills were adequate. The idea of editing a manuscript because a story offended God’s tenets was a modern one that he did not agree with. If the original author had seen fit to include the item in his book, then it was not up to Eifion of Caergybi to decide if it should remain or not. His was not the name on the title page, after all.
The man smiled at him. “Do you have the story about King Arthur’s poet?”
Eifion was surprised. “No…” he said slowly. He considered the matter. “There is another story that has been left out? About King Arthur? Can you tell me that story?” He pulled over a loose parchment sheet and dipped his pen in the ink and blotted it, then held it paused over the page and looked up at the man expectantly.
The man came over to the desk, throwing the long edges of his cloak back over his shoulders. “There is a seal that goes with the story, if I may draw it for you…?” He held his hand out for the pen.
Eifion gave it to him willingly.