Glastonbury Abbey - 1184 AD

The fire had spread throughout the buildings of the abbey, reducing them to charred skeletons and scorched rubble. Ash had settled on the few remaining structures, coating them in a layer of fine, grey powder. The smell of smoke hung in the air, and not even the drizzle was able to wash it away. Groups of monks sifted through the still warm clinker, seeing what - if anything - had survived the conflagration.

Abbot Peter observed the scene from the door of the scriptorium. The building had survived the fire. By the grace of God, the wind had forced the flames away from the scriptorium and its library of precious manuscripts. There were over a hundred kept safe within the stone walls of the building, each one the result of hundreds - if not thousands - of hours of labour. Even those that could be replaced would have been a tragic loss to the abbey, to England and to Christendom. The abbot turned his attention back to his guest, the mysterious man who had been caught on the night of the fire.

"I must thank you for your help," Peter said. "You are a most capable man."

Emrys Wledig shrugged. "So I have been told. But the laws of hospitality bind me as much as they do you and your community. It would have been remiss of me if I had not come to your aid in this dark time."

"And I hope that you will accept my apology."

Emrys raised a hand to silence the abbot. "It is understandable. A gentleman of the roads arrives unannounced, unfortunately at the same time as a fire engulfs your chapel. The fact that your congregation was suspicious of me is to be forgiven."

"That is generous of you." The abbot bowed his head. "But, you will forgive me if I now take the opportunity to ask you your business here."

"Ah. Yes. Of course." Emrys took hold of the sleeve of the abbot's robe and pulled him into the relative privacy of the scriptorium. The lecterns and scribes' desks were deserted. A few still had the scribes' tools of their trade out on them: scrapers, rulers, pens and inks. The scholar paused to look at a parchment stretched out on a frame. It was marked with the outlines of letters. "Is this one of Herodotus's histories?" he asked.

The abbot looked confused at the parchment. "I do not know," he said at last. "I would have to ask Scipio. This is his desk."

Emrys studied the parchment in silence for a minute or two. "Yes. Herodotus. I recognise the passage."

Abbot Peter cleared his throat. "We were about to discuss your business here. While we welcome travellers and pilgrims, it is only polite of them to announce themselves."

"And I would have, had you not been already occupied when I arrived. But, yes. I am a pilgrim of sorts."

The abbot smiled. At last he felt on familiar ground. "And what is your pilgrimage? Where are you heading for?"

"Here," Emrys said simply.

"Of course. You cannot be here for the White Thorn. It has already bloomed for this year."

"I know. Besides, I have seen it before. No." Emrys shook his head. "I came here for two reasons. Alas, I can no longer fulfil one of them; but the other I am sure that you can help me with. Abbot - will you grant me an audience with your librarian? I believe that Brother Carwyn was in line for that post?"

"You mean Laurence?" The abbot looked harder at the stranger. "I believe that is the name he took when he asserted his vocation."

Emrys chuckled. "A most appropriate name for his occupation. Although I think that he was being a touch dramatic when he chose it. But he is here?"

"I am sure that you will be able to speak to him after he has finished his duties for the day."

"If he is the librarian, then his duties should be here. So, please, bring him to see me." An intense fire seemed to burn in Emrys's eyes. de Marcy tried to pull away from the gaze, but his body refused to obey him. Instead, he felt a strange lethargy begin to steal over him. "Please," Emrys repeated. "I am sure that he will be happy to see an old friend."

"An old friend," Abbot Peter repeated. "He would be happy to see you."

Emrys steered the abbot towards the scriptorium door. "And do not worry about the manuscripts. I will treat them with the respect they deserve." Then he made himself comfortable to await the abbot's return.

It did not take long for Abbot Peter to hurry back to the scriptorium. Behind him was another monk, dressed in the grey habit of a senior brother of the order. Emrys could overhear the other monk scolding the abbot.

"... And you left him there? Abbot, I must protest. Just think of the harm that he could do there. I would never forgive you if he was to disturb any of my scribes' work."

The abbot did not answer the other monk, but instead kept an expression of grim determination on his face and his eyes fixed ahead of him. As soon as he saw Emrys, Abbot Peter pointed an accusing finger. "You! I do not know what you did! But, may the saints witness me truly, I shall - !"

Emrys interrupted the abbot's tirade. "Carwyn? My friend! You have not aged well."

The monk in the grey habit stopped. "Emrys? Is that you? If it is, then you have not aged at all. How long has it been since we last saw each other?" He opened his arms and drew Emrys into a manly embrace.

"If I was to tell you," Emrys said, "then you would not believe me."

"No. I would not." Carwyn nodded towards the abbot. "This man and I, we are brothers under the sky in the same way that you and I are brothers under Christ. I give you my word."

The abbot looked back and forth between the two old men, then sighed. "Your word is good enough for me, Laurence. I shall leave our guest in your hands. I still have matters to attend to." He waited for a minute, but Emrys and Carwyn were chatting animatedly to each other in some heathen tongue. He left quietly.

As soon as the abbot was out of earshot, Emrys's attitude changed, becoming more serious. "Carwyn, do you remember your vow?"

The librarian nodded in response. "Aye. I do. And I take it that is why you are here?"

"Of course," Emrys replied. He looked down at the ring of iron keys that hung heavily from the belt around Carwyn's thick waist. "Now, shall we honour it?"