Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page A

struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.
    On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks—Carthusians, Benedictines—looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.
    A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted—in addition to new initiates—the occasional wanderer. At the castle’s zenith, a Pilgrim’s Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.
    Today the Pilgrim’s Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.
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    In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.
    At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.
    He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitor’s table—the only occupied table in the room—he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.
    â€œDominus vobiscum,”
he said with a smile.
    The man rose from the table.
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
    â€œPlease remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested.”
    â€œYou are very kind.”
    â€œIt is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment.”
    The man smiled. “Or the pursuit of truth.”
    â€œWhich is frequently the same thing.” The man pulled a soft cloth from his sleeve and lovingly dusted the ancient books. “Your name is Logan, correct? Dr. Jeremy Logan, Regina Professor of Medieval History at Yale?”
    The man looked at him. “I am Dr. Logan. Currently, though, I’m on academic leave.”
    â€œPlease do not think I am prying, my son. I am Father Bronwyn, abbot of Grimwold Castle.” He took a seat on the far side of the table with a sigh. “In many ways it is a trying job. You would think an abbey as ancient as this would be free from internal bureaucracy and petty