“All the servants at the lodging are simmering,” said Brother Mark. “Youknow how devoted they are to Abbot Heribert, and now to be made to servesomeone else, before his place is truly vacant, even! Brother Henry says it’salmost blasphemy. And Brother Petrus is looking blacker than thunder, and mutteringinto his cooking-pots something fearful. He said, once Prior Robert gets hisfoot in the door, it will take a dose of hemlock to get him out again whenAbbot Heribert returns.”

Cadfael could well imagine it. Brother Petrus was the abbot’s cook, old inhis service, and a black-haired, fiery-eyed barbarian from near the Scottishborder, at that, given to tempestuous and immoderate declarations, none of themto be taken too seriously; but the puzzle was where exactly to draw the line.

“Brother Petrus says many things he might do well not to say, but he nevermeans harm, as you well know. And he’s a prime cook, and will continue to feedthe abbot’s table nobly, whoever sits at the head of it, because he can do noother.”

“But not happily,” said Brother Mark with conviction.

No question but the even course of the day had been gravely shaken; yet sowell regulated was the regime within these walls that every brother, happy ornot, would pursue his duties as conscientiously as ever.

“When Abbot Heribert returns, confirmed in office,” said Mark, firmlycounting wishes as horses, “Prior Robert’s nose will be out of joint.” And thethought of that august organ bent aside like the misused beak of an old soldierso consoled him that he found heart to laugh again, while Cadfael could notfind the heart to scold him, since even for him the picture had its appeal.