Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE) (7 page)

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.
 

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.

“Thank you for your help with this, Blake. Now I can use this information to go after the Valkyrie.”

“Will I … see you again?” he asked, not wanting this to be the end. “I want to know what you find, and I doubt that I’ll find any kind of truth in the media. At least our kind of truth anyway.”

Morgan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll find you afterwards, I promise. Why don’t you stay and look at the Gospels for a bit longer. I’m sure the librarian would be happy to take you on a personal tour.”

As they both laughed, Morgan leaned forward and kissed Blake on the cheek. He looked into her
blue eyes, like cobalt from the illuminated script, the slash of violet in her right darker now, almost indigo. He wanted to read her, wanted to know her emotions, and her past. She intrigued him.
 

“This is goodbye for now,” she said, turning to the door and walking out, without looking back.
 

***

Morgan pulled out her phone in the atrium of the library. Marietti answered on the first ring.
 

“Did you find anything?” he asked, his voice tense. She could hear talking in the background, and a news bulletin that still looped on the museum hostage crisis.

“I think they might be heading to Iona,” Morgan said. “The Scottish island also had a famous monastery that was raided by the Vikings, and it could be that they were looking for the same thing the Valkyrie is. She called it the Eye of Odin, and the staff was just a step on that journey. The museum wasn’t the end game.”

“Hmm. Interesting, but things look a little different from here. We’ve had a report of a suspicious murder in the Orkney Islands, a man ritually killed in the Ring of Brodgar, a Neolithic stone circle. The local police say there’s a group who follow the ways of the Vikings in the islands, expected back later tonight. Harmless, or so they thought.” Marietti laughed bitterly. “I’m sending a team there to investigate and intercept the return of the Valkyrie.”
 

It was over 200 miles from Orkney to Iona across land and sea, Morgan thought. If she was wrong, then she would miss out on dispensing the justice she so desperately wanted. Betting on Blake’s visions over hard evidence was crazy, but she thought of how he had been in the trance. It was as if he had left his physical body, and working for ARKANE had eroded the skepticism she used to have about the inexplicable.

“I’d like to go to Iona,” she said. “Then we’ll be covering both angles.”

“Hold on a minute.” Morgan heard Marietti barking commands to those in his office before returning to the phone. “Alright, get to Iona. But if you insist on investigating there, I can’t spare anyone to come with you. We’re stretched as it is, and you might find nothing. We can send backup if you do get a lead. Still want to go?”

Morgan’s rage about the murder in the museum was still simmering, and she didn’t want to continue this fight back in the depths of the ARKANE offices. Her preference was always for action, if she had the choice. Of course, Blake’s unusual talent could be completely useless, his visions merely the product of an unhinged mind. But she had seen him read, and there had been no trace of the crazy there, only a man who was tortured by what he saw.

“Yes, I want to go. But can you at least get me a weapon?”
 

“Head for London City Airport and we’ll sort out a flight to Glasgow, and a helicopter from there. There’ll be a box waiting for you. Stay in touch, Morgan.”