Stephen Baxter: Conqueror

But even as the brothers sang, Elfgar watched Aelfric, his gaze as heavy as lead.

She had spotted his rapacious look as soon as she had landed on Lindisfarena. It was a look she had not expected to encounter here, among the monks of the Shield Island. Perhaps he could smell the stink of a woman on her. But she saw the way others, even those older than herself, cowered from Elfgar's gang.

A pilgrim might come away believing that the oblates, deacons and novices laboured at their daily duties here under the stern but holy eye of the abbot, that their bodily needs were tended to by Domnus Wilfrid who made sure they were fed and clothed, and their souls guided by their tutors, such as Dom Boniface who watched over Aelfric herself. But in the underworld of the novices and deacons there was another power, wielded by the likes of Elfgar. Monks were humans too, and in some ways the monastery was just like the thegns' halls where Aelfric had grown up, Elfgar like a bully among the athelings. Aelfric didn't know what he wanted, but she knew her time with him would come.

And what she really feared was losing her secret: that Elfgar might find out that her name wasn't Aelfric at all but Aelfflaed, that she wasn't a young man but a woman, and that she shouldn't be here at all in this all-male house of God.

When Matins was over, the monks were released for a bit more sleep before Prime, the first of the day's six services. But that morning Aelfric didn't want to go back to bed. As the monks filed out of the church the dawn light was enticing – a deep rich blue that had a trace of purple in it, she decided with the eye of one who was learning to master colour in her inks. On impulse she ducked away from the others and cut south towards the shore. She walked briskly, swinging her arms and pumping her legs, relishing the crisp sea air in her lungs and the feel of the blood surging in her veins.

At the sea she walked into sharp-cold water up to her ankles. Gritty sand, speckled with bits of sea coal, slid between her toes. She was seventeen years old, and she had grown up hunting and play-fighting every bit as hard as her brothers. She longed to throw off her heavy habit and run, naked, into the ocean's cold water. But that, of course, was impossible; this moment of paddling must be enough.

With her ankles in the water, her habit hitched up around her knees, Aelfric looked back at the monastery she had made her home.

The island of Lindisfarena was round, like the shield from which it took its name (lind was an old British word), and small enough that you could walk across it in an hour. A sandy spit ran off to the west, which the monks called the Snook – like the arm of the warrior who bore the shield-island. Lindisfarena was only sometimes an island, however. A causeway, a trail of sand and mud flats, linked the western end of the Snook to the mainland, but it was drowned for five-hour periods twice each day. Aelfric could see wading birds pecking for food along the length of the causeway, and seals gambolling like hairy children in the shallow waters.

The monastery itself was unassuming. Within a low wall huddled the cells of the monks, crudely-built domes of stone that everybody called 'beehives'. Aelfric herself shared a wooden-walled dormitory with other novices, smooth-faced boys, mostly the sons of thegns, too dull-witted even to notice that they were living with a woman. More square-built buildings clustered, a refectory and kitchen, an infirmary, a hospitium for any guests – and of course the library and scriptorium. A thread of smoke rose up from a kiln for bread-making.

From here it looked austere, frugal. Tiny and remote the island was, modest its monastery might look, but Lindisfarena was one of the most famous Christian sites in the world. It was to its off-shore isolation that King Oswald of Northumbria had summoned Saint Aidan of lona to convert his pagan people, more than a hundred and fifty years ago. From that beginning Northumbrian Christianity had become so strong that where once Rome had sent missionaries to a pagan Britain, now Northumbrian missionaries worked in the lands of the Franks and the Germans.

And it was rich. Aelfric mused that if the church's wooden walls could be turned to glass you would be dazzled by the gold and silver revealed within. A century ago Lindisfarena had become the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, and pilgrims had come here ever since, all bringing money, even if only a penny or two each.

In this remarkable place, here was Aelfric, hiding her sex so she could read a few books.

The light was brightening. She realised she had no idea how much time she had already wasted, standing here in the sea. But then today was a fast day, one of no less than two hundred in the year, and she could always give up her meal-times to work in the scriptorium. She plodded out of the water and ran through the thick sand back towards the monastery.

Belisarius of Constantinople, who arrived in Britain knowing nothing of Isolde's Menologium, never meant to come to Lindisfarena. After a long journey across the Mediterranean from Greece, his precious books wrapped in pigskin and stacked in sturdy trunks, he had sailed on a Frankish ship from Massilia to the port of Brycgstow. He had come to meet a trader called Theodoric, with whom he had worked many times before, and to deliver his antique books. His sojourn in Britain should have ended where it began, in Brycgstow. And it would have if not for chance – and his own reckless nose for adventure.

After disembarking he had an hour or two to spare before he was due to meet Theodoric, and he wandered through the town.

Brycgstow was a crude place. Built by Germans on no discernible civilised template, the town's wooden buildings clustered like turds in a cow field and its roads straggled like sheep tracks. The dock area was crowded, and the strand heaped up with goods – no wharves or warehouses here, you just dumped your cargo on the filthy beach. Belisarius kept a sachet of Syrian spices hanging at his neck to keep out the stink of blood and piss and dung, and he tried not to wince when his boots were spattered with filthy mud. On travelling outside the empire he always carried spare shoes.

But Brycgstow greeted ships from all the petty kingdoms of Britain, from Frankia and the northern countries, from the Moors of Iberia and the Goths of Italy, and of course from the East Roman Empire. It was a model of the whole world in miniature, Belisarius thought, as all ports were.

And Brycgstow was famous across Europe as a slave market. The west of Britain was an intersection between the aggressive, squabbling German kingdoms and the older British domains; the endless wars were good for the slave trade. Many of the cowed captives in their pens were Latin-speaking Britons who still thought of themselves as Roman, and would come laden with awkward aspirations. But the various breeds of German were not above selling their own kind when they got the chance. They all looked alike to Belisarius, whose own family were Greeks. He kept few slaves himself; he found slavery distasteful, and he was relieved to stroll away from the dock area, deeper into the town.

He walked through a quarter of manufactories, passing a cobbler's, an iron worker's, a silversmith's. He reached a small market where animals swarmed around stalls piled high with meat and stunted-looking vegetables and fruit. The people were a rough lot, but they seemed healthy enough, tall, many of them blond, and with good teeth. Many wore striking brooches at their shoulders, and necklaces of beads or silver tokens strung across the chest. Men and women alike wore their hair tightly bound up on their heads.

Belisarius stood out from the crowd, with his clean-shaven Greek looks, and his modest but good-quality clothing. He had no fear, however. East Romans had been trading here for centuries, ever since the severance of this old province from the collapsed western empire. And Belisarius's father, who had served as a soldier under the great emperor Constantine V, had raised his sons so that they were capable of defending themselves. Aged forty but still fit, Belisarius met any challenging glare frankly.