And now, in the cold, dry but unshaken shelter of the chapel that Joseph of Arimathea had built when he’d brought the cruets containing Christ’s sacred blood and sweat from the Holy Land, Brother Caradoc did his duty as the abbey’s annalist. In feeble taper light and apologetically using Saint Michael’s altar as a table, he chalked this latest event in Glastonbury ’s history onto slate pages so that, later, he could transcribe them onto the vellum of the Great Book.

“And the Lord’s voice was heard in the screams of people and the squealing of animals as the ground undulated and opened beneath them, in the fall of great trees, in the toppling of candles and the roar of resultant flames as houses burned.”

The pain in his chest increased, and the shade of Saint Dunstan went on nagging him. “The Book must be saved, Caradoc. The history of all our saints cannot be lost.”

“I haven’t got to the wave yet, my lord. At least let there be some record of it.” He went on writing.

“Loudest of all, our Lord spoke in the noise of an approaching wave that raised itself higher than a cathedral in the bay and ran up the tidal rivers of the Somerset Levels, sweeping away bridges as it came and drowning all in its path. Through His mercy, it only reached the lower reaches of our Abbey so that it still stands, but…”

“The Book, Caradoc. Tell that idle nephew of yours to fetch it.”

Brother Caradoc looked to his fellow monks, immobile and huddled for warmth on the choir floor, some of them snoring. “He sleeps, lord.”

“When doesn’t he?” Saint Dunstan asked with some justice. “Either sleeping or singing unsuitable songs, that boy. He’ll never make a monk. Kick him awake.”

Gently, Brother Caradoc prodded a pair of skinny young ankles with his foot. “Rhys, Rhys. Wake up, bach.”