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unlimited quantities, and I had just the appetite to cope with it. Having completed a manful job, I filled my glass with their white wine, which I had found especially good, and sat back to hold up my end of the conversation.
    It promised to be a pleasant evening, for if, to judge from their discourse, the fathers did not run to profundity of scholarship, they were good fellows of reasonable education. The complexion of affairs changed in a minute, however. A priest followed by six other monks entered, and we all rose in greeting.
    It was then that I saw what gave the place its air of having a backbone. The first monk was the Abbot, a broad-shouldered man with a strong, calm face. He himself said little, falling heartily to eating, but the turn of the talk was more businesslike after his arrival. It was evident from the words of the other newcomers that they had been on a scouting and skirmishing expedition. I had been right in appraising the place as one-part fort to one-part house of God.
    A local faction, meaningless to me, was the chief subject of discussion so I kept silent and drank contentedly enough. The longer they sat and talked the more wine I’d have time to get under my skin. I was eventually conscious, though, that the Abbot had finished and was looking at me with his keen, wide-set eyes. “Who are you, my son?” he asked bluntly when I met his gaze.
    “Finnian, Father. An Irish bard.”
    They were all looking at me now, Father Clovis sardonically, the rest with curiosity or suspicion. The monastery was off the main ways, although most likely it could be reached by more traveled roads than the one which had led me there. Still it was a time when all strangers must account for their presence plausibly. “I landed at Nantes a few days ago. My plan was to go to Tours,” I told him.
    His sonorous voice grew deeper. “You are sadly off your path then.”
    I held his eyes steadily. “I had to change my plans, Father.”
    “Why?”
    It was chancy, for I couldn’t know what alliances anybody around there had, but I decided there’d be a larger percentage of risk in evasion. “There’s a man south of here called Chilbert who doesn’t like me. I’m trying to skirt around his territory.”
    I had said something then, for the monks stared at me or whispered asides to each other. The Abbot thought it over and rose abruptly. “Come with me, my son. I’d like to talk to you.”
    With a regretful look at the wine I followed him out and along the cloister till he entered a room which proved to be his study. There was still sufficient daylight to illuminate it, complete with desk, shelves for parchment items, and a pair of chairs. He chose the one by the desk, and at his gesture I took the other.
    “How well do you know Count Chilbert?” he wanted to know.
    “Not at all and yet too well,” I replied, the wine impelling me toward breeziness. “He wants to kill me, a familiarity I try to discourage from strangers.”
    He didn’t laugh, and under the pressure of his waiting eyes I told him exactly what had happened, omitting only the exchange of my old nag for the bay. A priestly garrison might well commandeer such a fine horse for the good of my soul.
    He nodded when I had finished. “The count’s a cruel scoundrel, but he’s a powerful figure hereabouts.”
    I shrugged. “I was given to understand he had plenty of followers. Otherwise I wouldn’t have given his domain such clearance.”
    “I thought possibly,” he hinted, “that you might have heard something about his general activities while you were in the vicinity.”
    “I might have, had I been interested. As it was I heard nothing beyond the usual story these days: everything’s falling to pieces, and thieves are plundering the ruins.”
    He brooded, seeing a long way. “If some of the thieves are strong enough to protect what they take,” he said at last and more to himself than to me, “it will mean some sort of stability. If the process