So Brother Cadfael rolled contentedly to his chosen seat in thechapter-house, conveniently retired behind one of the pillars in a dim corner,and watched with half-sleepy benevolence as his brothers of the house filed inand took their places: Abbot Heribert, old and gentle and anxious, sadly wornby the troublous year now near its ending; Prior Robert Pennant, immensely talland patrician, ivory of face and silver of hair and brows, ever erect andstately, as if he already balanced the mitre for which he yearned. He wasneither old nor frail, but an ageless and wiry fifty-one, though he contrivedto look every inch a patriarch sanctified by a lifetime of holiness; he hadlooked much the same ten years ago, and would almost certainly change not atall in the twenty years to come. Faithful at his heels slid Brother Jerome, hisclerk, reflecting Robert’s pleasure or displeasure like a small, warped mirror.After them came all the other officers, sub-prior, sacristan, hospitaller,almoner, infirmarer, the custodian of the altar of St. Mary, the cellarer, theprecentor, and the master of the novices. Decorously they composed themselvesfor what bade fair to be an unremarkable day’s business.

Young Brother Francis, who was afflicted with a nasal snuffle and somewhatsparse Latin, made heavy weather of reading out the list of saints and martyrsto be commemorated in prayer during the coming days, and fumbled a piouscommentary on the ministry of St. Andrew the Apostle, whose day was just past.Brother Benedict the sacristan contrived to make it sound only fair that he, asresponsible for the upkeep of church and enclave, should have the major claim