Day of the Vikings

by J. F. Penn

  Her only hesitation was that she had a bad habit of involving other people who ended up getting hurt. Morgan thought of Dr. Khal el-Souid, badly beaten in the caves of Mount Nebo as they searched for the Ark of the Covenant. He’d been lucky to escape with only minor concussion. She blushed a little as she remembered the night that followed. Khal’s dark eyes meeting hers in the light of the early morning as the muezzin called the dawn prayers … How his arms had felt around her. She and Khal had shared something in the desert, but Morgan knew a relationship was never going to work, so she had left him behind and they hadn’t spoken since. Blake reminded her a little of Khal, a smart man with gorgeous skin, his blue eyes the ocean to Khal’s deep brown. She pushed aside her concerns. Blake was involved now, whether she liked it or not, and she needed his help for just a little longer.

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I’ll call Marietti en route, but we need to go to the British Library before I head back.”

  Chapter 8

  MORGAN AND BLAKE JUMPED in a black cab and headed for the British Library, only a few blocks northeast toward St Pancras station. Morgan finally had reception to make a call and dialed Director Marietti’s personal phone.

  “Morgan, are you all right?” The gruff voice of the Director was tempered by concern. “I’m viewing some of the security camera footage now, and it’s brutal stuff.”

  “Yes, I’m fine sir, and I’ll report in full soon, but right now we have a lead that may help us locate where the Neo-Viking group are heading. Were the police able to track the helicopter?”

  “The Neo-Vikings used the same type of Black Hawk helicopter as the Americans allegedly used for the raid on Bin Laden. It doesn’t show up on radar, but we’re tracking physical sightings right now. They flew east, then must have landed either on a boat or transferred to land transport.”

  Morgan frowned. “It suggests some serious funding behind the group.”

  “Exactly.” Marietti’s voice held the promise of further investigation. “There was also a vicious wind that surrounded the helicopter as they headed east, low over the river toward the sea. Nothing could get close to it. I want you back here to work on what the hell is going on.”

  “The leader of the group was a woman calling herself the Valkyrie, and she said some things that reminded one of the academics at the museum of The Lindisfarne Gospels.” Morgan didn’t want to try and explain Blake’s unique ability right now, especially as she knew that Marietti might try to recruit him or at least want to know a lot more than she had time for. “The researcher is with me now, and we’re going to check the Gospels out. Can you call ahead and get that cleared so we have access?”

  Morgan heard the hesitation in Marietti’s voice.

  “All right, go check the Gospels, but then you’ve got to get back here, Morgan. The press are having a field day with this. While the police work on the crime angle, we need to get that staff back. Based on the footage of the Valkyrie and the wind she generated, there are plenty of people who are going to want it.”

  Morgan knew that there was an underground network of organizations and individuals who collected such objects. Most of them kept to the shadows, but others emerged with their plans to impact the wider world. The staff of Skara Brae, resonating with ancient power, would draw them all when the footage was inevitably released on YouTube. Some would dismiss it as fake special effects, the conspiracy theorists would turn it into the start of some global plot, but some would know the truth and seek it out. The staff was powerful in the right hands, and Morgan knew she had to get it back. If they could locate the Eye of Odin as well, then all the better.

  The taxi pulled up in front of the British Library on the Euston Road. Morgan and Blake walked into the forecourt, past the huge bronze statue of Newton, bent to measure the world with his calipers, frowning with concentration. The British Library was a modern building, red brick on two sides of the piazza square, with the gothic spires of St Pancras station towering behind it. Three flagpoles stood in the middle of the square, the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze, while readers streamed in the doors or drank coffee in patches of sun, fingers flicking through books. Despite the modern exterior, this library was a treasure store of the written word, a nirvana for any bibliophile. Morgan loved to come here, to feel a part of the grand heritage that was England.

  “I’m not sure we can just walk in and demand to see The Lindisfarne Gospels,” Blake said, as they walked across the square.

  “We won’t have to,” Morgan said. “ARKANE has phoned ahead.”

  Blake chuckled. “I envy you. My research is usually a combination of my own psychometric reading and then a period of begging for access to get it verified through official sources.”

  The entrance to the library was flanked by security guards who nodded them through, and they stepped into the spacious atrium. Sun streamed down from skylights high above the central light well, and three levels of reading rooms could be seen, with readers bustling between them carrying the clear plastic bags that were mandatory in the Reading Rooms. The sense was of open space, not crammed stacks, a portal to the information housed here in so many forms, much of it now digitized.

  “The Gospels are in the Ritblat Gallery, alongside the other Treasures of the Library,” Morgan said. “This way.”

  Up a short flight of stairs, the entrance to the Ritblat Gallery was dark, the light dimmed to preserve the precious objects within. Each glass case held priceless documents, from pages of Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks to an eleventh-century manuscript of Beowulf, the handwritten pages damaged by fire. Thomas Hardy’s original manuscript of Tess of the D’Urbervilles was here, his fine cross-hatched edits still evident, as well as more modern treasures like the lyrics to The Beatles’ “Yesterday.”

  A huge globe dominated one area of the room, a baroque vision of the heavens painted with ancient constellation figures. Pegasus, the winged horse, galloped next to the Great Bear, paws uplifted to stride across the globe. Nearby stood the collection of Christian manuscripts, most illuminated by the hands of monks long dead.

  Morgan couldn’t help but look into the case holding the Codex Sinaiticus, her thoughts going back to St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai, where it had originally been kept. Written over 1600 years ago, the handwritten manuscript with heavily corrected text was the Christian Bible in Greek, containing the oldest complete copy of the New Testament. Pages of the text had been sewn into other book bindings, and a fragment had pointed her and Khal to a new location for the Ark of the Covenant not so long ago. Despite the dangers of ARKANE, Morgan lived on the edge of the boundary between the ancient world and the modern, and there was nowhere else she would rather work.

  A librarian waved at them from a side door.

  “Are you from ARKANE?” the woman asked. Morgan nodded. “The Lindisfarne Gospels are normally kept on display here, but they’re currently resting.”

  “Resting?” Blake asked.

  The librarian gave him a smile as she touched her hair, her eyes twinkling more as she addressed him directly. Blake’s injuries only seemed to heighten his good looks.

  “Even though the lights are dimmed in here, the manuscripts are still affected so we like to give them a rest in the dark now and then. Our aim at the British Library is to make sure these treasures last another thousand years for everyone to enjoy. Normally we wouldn’t allow anything to disturb them, but you seem to have a special pass. We’ve just retrieved the Gospels from their resting place and they’re ready for you to view. Follow me.”

  The woman pushed open a door leading away from the Ritblat Gallery, and walked ahead of them down a short corridor. At a doorway, she turned, pulling two pairs of white gloves wrapped in plastic from her pocket.

  “These are mandatory for you to wear when handling the manuscript.” She frowned, noticing Blake’s own gloves for the first time. He turned his hands so she couldn’t see the blood stains.

  “Of course,” Morgan said, taking them and handing
a pair to Blake.

  They pulled off the plastic and put the gloves on, Blake hiding his own stained pair in his pocket for the meantime. When she was satisfied they were appropriately attired, the librarian pushed open the door.

  “I’ve been told to leave you to it, but I’ll just be down the hall if you need anything.”

  Morgan and Blake stepped into the room, a stark white cube containing nothing but a white table with a bookrest, and on it, The Lindisfarne Gospels. The book was illuminated with artistic calligraphy and painted scenes, interweaving the cultures that influenced England at the time it was written. There were Egyptian Coptic cross-carpet pages, exotic iconography from the Eastern Mediterranean, Celtic spiral patterns, Greek Byzantine lettering and even the angular shapes of Germanic runes. Created in the late seventh century at Lindisfarne Priory, the book was considered to be one of the nation’s leading artistic treasures, as well as an icon of faith.

  “It’s beautiful,” Blake said, bending to look at the cover more closely. Gold and silver strips formed a border around the edge, each with a precious stone in the middle. The center panel was a deep crimson inlaid with Celtic woven patterns in precious metal, a fitting cover for such a holy book.

  Morgan opened the first page with gloved fingers, revealing a richly colored tapestry of red and sunset-yellow tiles around the shape of a cross. The Coptic carpet style was reminiscent of Islamic prayer rugs, and miniature birds lay around the edge, beaks clutching each other’s feet in a never-ending spiral. The letters at the beginning of the Gospels were illuminated in the colors of turquoise, ochre and plum, each one a world of fantastical beasts and swirling heraldic devices.

  “It looks like there is other writing under the main text,” Blake said.

  “It’s a translation,” Morgan pointed, careful not to touch the page. “Old English was added between the lines of Latin, which makes it one of the oldest surviving translations of the Gospels into English. I wish we had time to study it properly, but we should really just check the back page. A colophon was added after the Viking invasion.”

  She slowly turned the pages, glimpsing paintings of the gospel writers transcribing the words of the Lord while angels trumpeted behind them, until finally, the last page was revealed. After the glorious extravagance and riot of color throughout the book, the colophon was an anticlimax, a page of black text, with the translation underneath and a column of text in a more casual hand, almost running off the edge of the page.

  “It’s a list of who helped in the making of the Gospels, but there’s some text that scholars have struggled to translate.” She pointed. “Right here. It’s only a few lines.”

  “Perhaps if I try my kind of reading, I’ll be able to get a sense of what the scribe was getting at.” Blake pulled one of the white gloves off. “Although to be honest, I’ve not had much luck reading manuscripts, as they usually have so many people involved in making them.”

  “This one is different,” Morgan said. “It’s supposed to be the work of one man, attributed to Bishop Eadfrith of Lindisfarne.”

  “We might have a chance then. Keep an eye on the door, will you? I don’t want to suffer the wrath of the librarian if I’m caught touching this book. I’ve had quite enough violence for one day.”

  Blake laid his bare fingers lightly on the edge of the handwritten text and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 9

  THE CRY OF SEAGULLS pierced the veil of Blake’s consciousness and the smell of the sea made him long for ocean winds. He opened his eyes to see the ruins of Lindisfarne Priory. Cottages still burned and the remains of slaughtered animals and men lay in the streets, in the direct aftermath of the Viking attack. Blake felt the outrage of the monk who held the Gospels tightly to his breast, and the grief that washed over his soul at what must surely be the loss of what he called family.

  “Come, brother.” The words were rough and cut with emotion. “We can do no more here. We must get word to Eilean Idhe, for that witch and her pagan protectors were searching for something and I’m afraid what they seek has been long hidden there. If we hurry, we can make the tidal crossing and begin our long journey before the waters get too high.”

  Blake turned to see another monk by his side, pulling the cowl up over his tonsured head to keep the wind from his weathered face, or perhaps to hide his tears. The land had been etched in his visage and his eyes were a deep brown, like the earth beneath their feet. He strode off, and Blake lengthened his stride to keep up, feeling a strange sense of the physical body he inhabited albeit briefly. The man who clutched the Gospels to his chest was muscular yet wiry, with strength in his limbs and a clarity of purpose that made every step a statement of survival despite persecution.

  As dusk began to fall, they emerged at a headland and Blake saw the crossing. A narrow strip of land ran from the island to the shore while the ocean lapped on either side, each minute reclaiming the wet ground for the sea. Lindisfarne was cut off from the mainland for all but a short time every day, a separate community of those who served God. Blake felt a sense of trepidation well up within him as he looked at the thin sliver of land left. They would be wading soon, and the waters would continue to rise, the current strong against their legs. Could he dare take the precious package of the Gospels from this place?

  The other monk turned.

  “We must hurry, brother. Come quickly, or the waters will be too high.” He reached out his hand. “I will help you.”

  At his kind words, Blake felt the monk relax and his faith in God calming him. The terrors of the day faded as the two men walked into the rising waters and Blake’s grip on the moment began to fade, the intense emotions around the book dissipating.

  He sifted through layers of consciousness, searching for another strand to grab onto, desperate to find out where the monks were heading and learn of the mysterious reference to what was hidden at this other place. In the layers between time, he found a glimmer of revelation and pulled himself back into the monk’s awareness.

  The two monks stepped off a little boat onto a beach of pale sand. Blake could sense their exhaustion after a long and dangerous journey. He had his back to a stretch of water, and the sun was setting directly ahead behind verdant green hills. A small village of low huts with a wooden church at its center loomed ahead in silhouette.

  The monk, still carrying the Gospels, fell to his knees.

  “Blessed St Columba, we thank you for your protection on this journey.” His prayers were fervent, cut short as a welcoming shout came from the monastery and brothers came to meet them.

  ***

  Blake was jolted out of the trance as Morgan removed his hand from the book.

  “Quick,” she said. “Put the glove back on. Someone’s coming.”

  Blake pulled the white glove on, his head reeling from the shift in perspective. How strange to be on an island one moment and then here in this surgically clean space in central London. Vertigo made his head spin and he clutched the edge of the table as the door opened.

  “Are you all right in here?” the librarian asked, her eyes narrowing as she saw Blake sagging a little. He stood up straighter, giving her his best rakish smile, an implied invitation that made her blush and avert her eyes quickly.

  “Yes, of course,” Morgan said. “We just need a few more minutes.”

  “Sure,” the librarian said, giving Blake a smile before she left again, the door closing behind her.

  “What did you do to her?” Morgan asked, grinning at Blake. “I might invite you to be my sidekick again if you charm all the ladies that way.”

  Blake thought of the nights he spent under the wicked spell of tequila, the casual sexual conquests on the London nightlife scene, the practice that lay under his easy sexuality. Where once those ephemeral pleasures had satisfied him, he now began to sense the emptiness in his life choices, but Morgan didn’t need to know about that side of his life.

  “Just my inimitable charm,” he said. “Before you pulled me back, I
did discover a couple of things that might help us. The Gospels were carried away from Lindisfarne by two monks, heading for another place where the sun set behind the hills and a strip of ocean was to my back, the reverse of Lindisfarne.”

  “Another island, but on the west coast, you think?”

  Blake nodded. “Yes, and they said something about needing to warn a community about the raids, that the thing the Vikings sought was buried there … they called it Eilean Idhe, but I’m sure I’m massacring the pronunciation.”

  Morgan smiled, recognition dawning on her face.

  “The island is called Iona now. It’s still a spiritual community, rich in the Christian tradition. The Bishop of Lindisfarne, St Cuthbert, originally came from Iona, so it makes sense there were ties between the two. The Vikings also raided the island in 794 and for many years afterwards, so perhaps they never found what they sought that day. Perhaps the monks warned them in time.”

  Blake heard the curiosity in her voice. “You’re going there, aren’t you?”

  Morgan nodded. “If you think that’s where the Valkyrie is heading, then yes, I’ll go … but with some backup this time.”

  Blake knew this was probably the end of his time with Morgan, but his experiences with Jamie Brooke on the Hunterian murder and now this were helping him to see that his gift could be useful. Perhaps there could be a way to use it to help, rather than just to see visions that haunted his nightmares.

  “Need a sidekick?” Blake asked, turning on his most charming smile. Morgan laughed, and he chuckled along with her, for there was no entrancing this woman. She was smart as well as attractive and saw right through his attempts. Morgan put her hand on his arm, suddenly serious.