from First Wolf..
Monks working in the fields, close to the beehive huts, ran towards the leeward side of the island. Others came from the long house, helping those who were old or ill. Abbot Higbald ordered them to seek safety in the church and protect Saint Cuthbert’s gospels. He ran towards the building, flinging open the door. Monks followed him, and as we hurried after them into the church Modig raced ahead of us and one man locked and bolted the door behind us.
The abbot seized a heavy, silver cross from the altar, and holding it before him, ran back to the door crying, ‘Deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen, deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen!’
There were heavy, running footsteps coming across the enclosure, men shouting in that strange language. Axe heads thudded against the stout, oak door, making me shake with fright. There were terrifying screams. I smelled burning thatch, there was a terrible crackling and a frightening whoosh above my head. Thick smoke drifted under the door, swirling round my feet.
‘Quick,’ an old monk shouted at me, the one who sent poor Desmond to his death, ‘follow me.’
He hurried as fast as his old body would allow and ran to the altar. Snatching up the book covered with Juliana’s jewels, he thrust it into my hands and cried, ‘This is more precious than your life – you must bring it safely to the monks at the White Church – close by the monastery at Durham.’ Then picking up a tall candlestick, fear giving him strength, he swung it above his head, smashing the coloured glass in the high window above the altar.
Screams from the enclosure froze my blood. Modig was barking, the church door splintering. The old monk peered through the wreathing smoke towards the door, grabbed me by my tunic, and shouted, ‘Swear you’ll do this. Swear on the holy book that you will guard it with your life!’
He seized my wrist, slamming my hand hard onto the surface of the gospels, the jewels digging into my flesh, and I cried, ‘I swear! I swear!’
Lindisfarne, an island off the coast of Northumberland, is also known as Holy Island, and it is where part of my children's book First Wolf is set...
from the book blurb:
It was Toland's twelfth year of life when his father hurled the wolf's head at the mighty Eorl Uhtred, bringing his childhood to a violent end. These were dangerous times, with people driven from their settlements, tribal wars, and bands of robbers on the roads, but Toland must keep his solemn promised to save the Lindisfarne Gospels from the Vikings, protect his family and find his father. With is faithful hound Bodo, he sets off on his quest through Anglo-Sazon Northumbria and his many adventures lead him into the fortress of Bamburgh, to the mysterious hermit on Inner Farne, the mystery of the stolen jewels, a blood debt, and a terrible discovery at the White Church...
Afraid to return to the road, I set off through the sand hills, but it was difficult with my feet sinking deep in the wind-swept dunes. Weary, and my leg aching, I was glad to reach the damp, hard-packed sand of the bay and see the island of Lindisfarne at last.
The crossing place was a long narrow road made from a pile of rocks, with stakes driven deep to show the way. Thinking I might soon be safe, I hurried towards it. It didn’t seem far, and I limped as fast as I could, but with growing alarm realised the tide was moving swift in silent ripples towards me. It was coming from many directions, each dark sheet of water criss-crossing another, creeping around my feet. I backed away, but the advancing tide surrounded me, rising above my ankles and filling my boots.
The speed of the water was frightening. It was already up to my waist, and I fought to escape its powerful tugging. I turned and found I was far out in the bay and visible from the road. I started to wade back towards the dunes as fast as I could, but the sea slowed me down, and I hadn’t gone far when I heard a shout.
A small group of horses had stopped on the road. One rider was galloping across the beach towards me, clumps of sand flying from his mount’s hooves. The sucking tide was almost up to my shoulders. Men were shouting and pointing in my direction. A rider urged his horse chest high into the water, but before he could reach me, a wave knocked me off my feet and carried me out to sea.
I let out a cry of fear, salt water slopped into my mouth, and powerful currents took me further down the coast. The sea soaked my woollen cloak and wrapped it around me. I thrashed about, desperate to find sand under my feet, but I was out of my depth and sinking. I kicked hard with my one good leg, fighting to keep my head above water. I’m a strong swimmer, but not strong enough to fight the weight of my wet clothes and the power of the tide. It was carrying me further along the coast. I struggled to free myself from my cloak, but my brooch pin bent, it wouldn’t open.
