Bromholme was a place of pilgrimage some nine hundred years hence, where Kings came to attest to the source of the wonders, a piece of the True Cross. An artefact that travelled with a Chaplain of questionable purpose from Constantinople to a tiny, little known village in the heart of Norfolk.
As the sea grows ever closer, threatening in time to suck all remnants of the priory into its depths, the secrets remain hidden and the memories continue to fade. But there is, amongst its tumbling towers, a power that seems to emanate from the very flints, where a compass twirls with no purpose and stories of legions marching across the barren fields send a shiver of fear yet a glimmer of anticipation. Such is Bromholme.
