'That's no good reason to abandon God's worship.'

Aelfric said unsteadily, 'I had to drag him in here, to stop him going to the service. God forgive me.'

Belisarius touched her shoulder. 'You did the right thing.'

Boniface came shuffling to the door. 'If you won't let me go to the church, then at least we must warn the abbot.'

'No. The raiders will concentrate on the church, the library. They may not touch these cells at all. We will wait until the danger is past. And in the meantime-well, we will pray for deliverance. We are different breeds of Christian, but we must all seek the mercy of the same God. Aelfric, show me how you blocked the door-'

'No,' Boniface cried. Aelfric tried to soothe him, but he shrugged her off. 'We have to warn the abbot.'

'Please, Domnus,' Belisarius said. 'Stay and lead us in prayer-'

'Let me go.'

Belisarius had rarely heard such authority.

Macson shrugged. 'Let the old fool go. What does it matter? One more dead monk-'

'I will go,' Belisarius snapped. Nobody spoke. Macson looked away. Aelfric's eyes, adapted to the dark, were huge and fearful. 'Aelfric, keep them here. And block the door after me.' He turned away, not looking back, ignoring Boniface's cries of protest.

Trying to spy out the raiders, he crept to a scrap of high ground, ducking behind buildings and walls to keep out of sight.

They were already all over the monastery, he saw, tall, muscular men in leather tunics, like vicious, destroying angels. He was too late to warn the monks, even supposing they might have listened to him any more than Boniface had.

And as he watched, helpless, the raiders broke open the library and the scriptorium. They didn't bother with the doors; they just smashed in the flimsy walls of wood and daub with their axes. There was little to interest them in the scriptorium, and the workbenches and vellum frames, the pots of ink, the jars of quills were thrown into the dirt.

In the library they pulled down shelves piled high with books, scattering their loads on the ground. With an aching heart Belisarius saw his own trunk broken open by a barbarian's blade, his precious stock dumped out and filleted. The raiders stripped out the more obviously precious items, like the glorious gospels with their leather bindings crusted with jewels. But there were books in there, Belisarius knew, of far greater value than such baubles: ancient literature, some of it dating back to the days of Britannia, and more recent literature from the British provincial states – some of it the only copies in existence. But the raiders simply kicked the books they didn't want on to a rough bonfire, and black smoke rose as skin pages crisped and curled. It was the end of the work of centuries. How fragile were the products of civilisation, before these men with their iron and their fire and their dark ignorance.

Now the raiders closed in on the church. Again they simply bludgeoned down the walls. The monks, shocked, came swarming out like black-robed termites, and the raiders waded among them, their shining axe blades swinging like scythes. As blood splashed, a brilliant, terrible red, the monks' squeals of terror turned to pain. Many of the monks died in their church, unwilling to leave the sacred ground. Others fled the closing circle of axes, only to be pursued and cut down in turn.

After a time, when it was clear there would be no organised resistance, the raiders began to play. They stripped off the monks' habits, exposing bodies white as grubs, and made them run for their lives. They chased others into the sea, where they would surely drown. Some of the younger monks were rounded up like cattle. Perhaps they would be carted away into slavery, their days of calm and order in the monastery a distant dream. There were crueller games yet. One raider forced a novice to bend forward over the altar, and briskly raped him. The raider slit the novice's throat in the very moment he spent himself. Another held down an old man and forced a crucifix down his throat, until he choked. Belisarius thought that was the end of the abbot, that brisk, commanding, cynical manager of men.

While this went on the looting of the church proceeded systematically. The raiders stripped out chandeliers and lanterns and the jewel-encrusted shrine, the altar services of silver and gold, and heaped it all up on the dirt outside.

One frail monk sprawled over a wooden box, hugging it. This was the coffin containing the relics of Saint Cuthbert – and the monk who was spending his life to save it was Dom Wilfrid, the weak and foolish lover of Elfgar. Of course his efforts only served to draw the attention of the raiders, and an axe removed his head as casually as Belisarius might pluck a leaf from a tree. But when the raiders opened the blood-splashed box to find it contained nothing but dusty old bones, they abandoned it. Perhaps the saint who had already weathered centuries would survive this day of terrible destruction.

There was nothing Belisarius could do here. Even to watch this desecration and slaughter shamed him. As the wreckage of the church's walls leapt eagerly into flames, he turned away to make his way back to the cells.

Aelfric waited in the gloom of the cell, with Macson and Boniface. The walls were thick, but they could hear the screams, and smell the smoke that seeped under the door.

There was a rap at the door, making them all jump. 'It's me. Belisarius.'

'Help me,' Aelfric whispered to Macson. The two of them shifted the heavy bed that blocked the door.

Belisarius stumbled in. He sat on the floor, pressing his back to the stone wall. His handsome face was empty, soot-streaked. Aelfric thought he was trembling. He asked, 'Have you any water?'

'I'm sorry,' Boniface murmured.

'I was too late. They were there, the raiders. They burned the church, the scriptorium, the library.'

Boniface's eyes were closed. 'The books?'

'Robbed or burned. They destroyed mine too,' he added with a bleak humour.

'And the monks?' Aelfric asked, dreading the answer.

Belisarius looked at her with eyes that had seen too much today. 'Dead. Some spared, the younger ones, the strong.'

'Slaves,' Macson said grimly. 'German monks become wealisc.'

Aelfric stared at him, disbelieving. 'Is that triumph in your voice? Are you enjoying this?'

Macson made to answer, but Belisarius raised a hand. 'Enough.' He turned to Boniface, who sat quietly on the bed, his eyes closed, his hands joined as if in prayer, the tumour on his face black in the uncertain light. 'Domnus. They died at prayer. That must count for something. And the bones of the saint – the raiders found them, but saw no value. I think they can be saved.'

Boniface nodded. 'Thank you. That comforts me. But you must not be concerned for me, or the brothers. It is just as the prophecy foretold.'

'Yes. And you knew it, didn't you, old man? You knew the raiders would come -you went through the calculation; you knew it would be this month.'

Boniface whispered, 'Of course they would be Northmen in their dragon ships. What else could the Menologium refer to? And I knew that they would come this month. I've known it for years. I've been waiting for this day to come, this month, this year.'

Aelfric said, 'Why didn't you warn us?'

'Because the prophecy must be fulfilled. Because the Weaver willed it.'

'And what about us? Don't we matter at all?'

'Our work has been to preserve the document through the long dark ages of illiteracy and ignorance and pagan superstition. I told you that, Aelfric. That task has been completed – you've helped me do it-and so, no, we don't matter any more.'

Belisarius shook his head, appalled. 'You're suggesting that the purpose of this monastery, of all your centuries of labour and devotion, perhaps the purpose of the whole monastic movement, was merely to protect one enigmatic scrap of prophecy? All those monks, all those dozens of generations?'