The immense personality and legacy of St Cuthbert (Cuddy) shines through every page of this alternative history of Northeast England. It could have been like a novel by Tolstoy – a saga of the significance of common people - but although epic in dimension, it defies genre. Instead it delivers a forceful fusion of scholarly hagiography, psychic poetry, wonderment at architectural triumph and a profound empathy for the victims of history.
Only when they are half-mad with hunger and lack of sleep and their throats are hoarse from prayer do they finally emerge blinking into the present moment, where Owl Eyes has thought to build a fire and I have prepared a great vat of mutton stew.
The men are intoxicated by their own deep devotion. They all speak at once.
Edmund says: Oh, dear sainted Cuddy spoke to me.
Stitheard says: And to me. I do believe we are close.
Franco says: A sign, a sign, I received a sign from Him.
Chad says: Our piety and prayers are being rewarded.
Eadmer says: I think this might be the place, brothers.
Bishop Aldhun says: Yonder hill. This is to be his home.
Hunred says: Ediva told us all this over two days ago.
At this point the brothers look at me, and finally see me, as I turn and point.
Point to the wooded island of a hill once more. Point to the place of our calling.
