For there could not be anything in it to trouble the midnight rite ofMatins, here in this kindly spring, barely four weeks past Easter of the yearof Our Lord 1140, with Shrewsbury and all this region secure within the king’speace, whatever contentions raged farther south between king and empress,cousins at odds for the throne. The winter had been hard indeed, but wasblessedly over, the sun had shone on Easter Day, and continued shining eversince, with only light, scattered showers to confirm the blessing. Onlywestward in Wales had there been heavy spring rains, swelling the river level.The season promised well, the town enjoyed fair rule under a dour but justsheriff, and defended stoutly by a sensible provost and council. In a time ofcivil war, Shrewsbury and its shire had good cause to thank God and KingStephen for relative order. Not here, surely, should the conventual peace ofMatins fear any disruption. And yet Brother Anselm, for one instant, hadfaltered.

In the dim space of the choir, partially shut off from the nave of thechurch by the parish altar and lit only by the constant lamp and the candles onthe high altar, the brothers in their stalls showed like carven copies, in thistwilight without age or youth, comeliness or homeliness, so many matchedshadows. The height of the vault, the solid stone of the pillars and walls,took up the sound of Brother Anselm’s voice, and made of it a disembodiedmagic, high in air. Beyond where the candlelight reached and shadows ended,there was darkness, the night within, the night without. A benign night, mild,still and silent.

Not quite silent. The tremor on the air became a faint, persistent murmur.In the dimness under the rood loft, to the right of the entrance to the choir,Abbot Radulfus stirred in his stall. To the left, Prior Robert’s habit rustledbriefly, with an effect of displeasure and reproof rather than uneasiness. Themerest ripple of disquiet shivered along the ranks of the brothers, and againsubsided.