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Prologue: Leap of Faith
‘They’re here because of me.’
The abbot’s palm pressed against his chest. ‘All the more reason for you not to face them. They must not find you.’
‘But …’
Abbot Étgal interrupted – his voice, like his manner, serene and soothing. ‘The Lord has chosen a different path for you.’ He whispered a short blessing, signing the cross as he did so. ‘Now go,’ he said, turning to join his brethren in the chapel.
Every instinct in him rebelled against the abbot’s words. He was not one to run from a fight – yet he had to obey.
The sounds of angry feet and clinking weaponry grew louder. The Norsemen were close. Their noisy ascent had alerted the monks to the raid long before their silhouettes had broken free of the mist that clung to the base of the island. The intruders were making steady progress up the steep rocky steps to the cluster of huts on the top of the island monastery of Sceilig. At points along the route, the steps clung precariously to the side of the rock face. The Norsemen had to be careful – one slip would have sent them crashing to their death.
Unfortunately, their quarry’s delay proved costly – the Norsemen caught a glimpse of him as he scaled the outer wall.
With the dawn offering little light, the fugitive had to be vigilant as he ran between the lichen-covered rocks, down the steep incline to the cliff top. He could not afford to trip on any of the stones that protruded from the barren soil. In his haste, he stumbled into the burrow of a nesting puffin. The frightened bird took flight, scaring him witless, the commotion creating a ripple of piebald plumages, as puffin after puffin took to the air.
Behind, the raiders had cleared the monastery wall. Although tired, having climbed hundreds of steps to the summit, the sighting of their quarry gave them fresh impetus. They jeered and catcalled as their target fell, their Nordic language waking memories of his past. They were here to either kill him or bring him home.
A shiver ran down his spine as the sound of monks chanting filled the air. He admired their faith. An almost-forgotten story came to his mind. He had heard the first-hand account of a young monk who, in hiding, had endured the agony of hearing Norsemen butchering his friends. Determined that history would not repeat itself, he resolved to get off the island.
To the east, barely visible in the bad light, lay Gannet Island. The monks kept currachs there. If he could swim there, he had a chance of hiding out until nightfall. Then, he could use the cover of darkness to row to the southwest coast of Erin, and safety. Reaching the cliff edge, he stared down into a massive precipice. Below, the jagged rocks of the cove raised themselves out of a carpet of fog. It was impossible to judge where the rock ended and water began. He knew that it would take a mammoth leap to reach the ocean. Glancing back, he was not surprised to see that Iarl, his oldest foe, had outpaced the rest of the group and was closing rapidly. Taking off his woollen tunic, he skipped on to a protruding ledge and stood motionless, deep in concentration, forgetting momentarily the danger behind him.
Closing one eye, the tall Norseman took aim, his action contorting the scar that ran from under his left eye along the side of his nose and down his cheek.
Although the water sounded calm, the desperate man knew better. He listened as the waves slapped – it was vital to hit the water as the tide ebbed otherwise the incoming waves would smash him against the rocks. If, when he jumped, he managed to land clear, his troubles would only be beginning. He imagined spears and arrows raining down as he fought the swell. Even if he cleared the cove, it was not as if his pursuers would simply abandon their chase.
With a yell, Iarl launched his spear.
The hunted man remained focused on the water as he timed the gap between waves.
The spear’s course was true.
Rocking backward and forward, the man leapt.
The spear pierced him, high in his back.
Momentum carried him into the ocean.
