After nine years as Abbot of Saint Andrew’s Monastery, Death crept with insistence upon Constantin. His time on this Earth was nearing an end, as was the chronicle of his life. The laborious penning of episodes from his youth in Ireland, his reign over Alba, and of his exile latterly in this refuge of peace filled his days. It was this last chapter on which he now toiled, scratching his quill across the parchment.
At such a venerable age, his handwriting fell short of its former quality; the upstrokes were no longer as assured. How he blessed Brother Dunstan, who surely passed away years ago. Without his severe tutoring in Dublin and abandoned to his own devices, he would have squandered his youth and never learned to write. The old monk would have rattled Constantin’s arthritic knuckles
