These December snows, which covered most of the west, did morethan disrupt the lives of country people, starve some isolatedhamlets, bury not a few hill shepherds with their flocks, andfreeze all travel into enforced stillness; they overturned thefortunes of war, made sport of the preoccupations of princes, andsent history spinning off-course into the new year of 1143.

They also brought about a strange cycle of events in the abbeyof Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury.

In the five years that King Stephen and hiscousin, the Empress Maud, had fought for the throne of England,fortune had swung between them like a pendulum many times,presenting the cup of victory to each in erratic turn, only tosnatch it away again untasted, and offer it tantalizingly to theother contender. Now, in the white disguise of winter, it chose toturn probability topsy-turvy once again, and deliver the empressout of the king’s mailed hands as by a miracle, just as hisfist seemed closing securely on his prisoner, and his warfaretriumphantly ending. Back to the beginning of the five-yearstruggle, and all to do again. But that was in Oxford, far awaybeyond the impassable snows, and some time would elapse before thenews reached Shrewsbury.

What was happening in the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paulwas no more than a small annoyance by comparison, or seemed so atfirst. An envoy from the bishop, lodged in one of the upperchambers of the guest hall, and already irritated and displeased atbeing halted here perforce until the roads were passable again, wasunpleasantly awakened in the night by the sudden descent of astream of icy water onto his head, and made very sure that everyone