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was confident that permission would be granted, for we were at the pagan court under the authority and protection of King Wulfhere, Christian ruler of all Mercia and the most powerful warlord in the land. Eappa went to the Royal Hall to seek an audience with the King, rejoining us shortly afterwards, as we sat on the grass inside the walled compound, to announce in his brisk manner that we were to see the King at sunset.
    ‘Why doesn’t he see us immediately?’ snorted Brother Burghelm, his bald head trembling with indignation. ‘Surely he will refuse permission? He only barely tolerates our presence as it is and is under no obligation to aid our Mission.’
    ‘Are you sure this is the right time for such a request?’ Brother Padda whined. ‘This worshipper of devils has shown us no charity since we left the shadow of Wulfhere’s kingdom. Why should he do so now? He will probably allow Brand to travel into the forest and then have him killed, pleading with Wulfhere that it was the work of robbers.’
    Padda’s doubts chilled me to the marrow
    ‘Are you all growing cold with fear?’ Eappa hissed contemptuously, staring at us one by one. We all dropped our heads in shame.
    ‘If Brand is allowed to journey he will need no protection, for the Lord God Almighty will accompany him.’
    I swallowed hard and wished that my faith were as strong as Eappa’s.
    ‘The pagan will grant what we ask, for fear of Wulfhere’s wrath,’ he continued. ‘And if the King lets Brand travel in the heathen lands then, with the information he gathers, the Lord will deliver the Saxons into our hands.’
    We made the short walk to the Royal Hall just before sunset. The King listened in stony silence to Eappa’s request, staring at each of us in turn with eyes like ice.
    When Eappa had finished a bent old man, sitting on a stool next to the King, struggled to his feet. He cupped his hand and twittered like a bird into the King’s ear. I could not hear what he said, but I saw the King’s face crease into a broad smile and he nodded slowly, evidently pleased with what he had heard.
    ‘You wish the scribe to travel unhindered, to witness the ways and gods of my people? Permission is granted. And I shall provide a guide.’
    The beech branches groaned in the night wind, moving ponderously like giant hands high above my head; for a moment I was dragged back into the present. It was clear now that there would be no guide and that I had been abandoned, without a map or directions. Tears stung my cheeks and I took the crucifix from inside my tunic, held it on my chest and virtually willed memories of the monastery to visit me like old friends. Closing my eyes, I recalled the faces and voices of the initiates with whom I lived, and the sound of their laughter at private jokes shared out of earshot of the monks. I loved the regular routine: ringing bells in the night to pluck us from our dormitory beds, sleepy matins sung with the brethren, the six o’clock service, the seven psalms with the litanies and the chapter Eucharist. Then eagerly to breakfast; the memory of it awakened hunger pangs in my stomach. Without opening my eyes, I felt around inside my bag for barley bread and chewed on it slowly.
    Work in the scriptorium followed breakfast, with the smell of parchment and the scratching of quills like a dawn chorus of strange birds. This was my favourite time of the day, for among the initiates I was Eappa’s most prized scribe. I served the Almighty well with my quill.
    Soon I slipped into troubled slumber. I do not know how long I slept before I began to dream, but the images of that night were to live with me forever. I dreamed that a warm wind was sweeping into my face, tugging at my hair and tunic. I struggled to open my eyes and my vision cleared. I was speeding over open meadows, travelling at least twenty feet above ground, and when I approached dense woodland I rose much higher, skimming above the tops of the trees. The sensation