Frankish Burgundy
716 AD
A
rledge woke to a groan, several moments passing before he realized it was his own. He forced his eyes open, the effort tasking, his body weak, his energy spent. A jolt surged through him as panic overwhelmed him. He grabbed at his stomach, not concerned for the wound from where he had been run through, but for the Bible.
And sighed in relief at feeling it still there.
He lifted his robes, finding them blood-soaked, along with a thin hole marring the once perfect Bible where he had been run through. Blood oozed through it, enough to know he was done for, though if it weren’t for the Bible, he would be dead, the thick tome having saved his life.
He peered down the road, confirming what he already knew. His friends were dead, as was Ceolfrid, their precious gift for the Pope stolen, their assailants long gone, having left him for dead, his horse apparently not worth their time.
He wouldn’t make Rome.
Yet he still had a duty to perform, no matter how near death he might be.
He had to deliver the Bible into the hands of those he could trust.
But who might that be?
He couldn’t go forward, for his map told him a town lay between him and the next abbey. His only choice was to return from whence he came, and pray to the Good Lord that he made it to the abbey he had left only hours ago, before he was taken to wherever He felt him worthy of spending eternity.
He turned the horse around and urged it forward. His heart fluttered, his vision blurred, and his body grew weaker as he collapsed onto his steed, the spark of life fading to near nothing.
