And for both of those he had will enough to see him through what little had to be done. He realized he was smiling to himself in the darkness and moved cat-footed toward the stairs up to the chapel. He made no betraying sound as he went. He had taken time that afternoon, when there was no one to notice him, to ascend and descend the stairs twice, to count them and how many paces it was from their head to the chapel door on the likelihood it would be shut, leaving him no light to go by. He had been right about that, he found. He ascended into darkness, but, sure of his going, paused only at the head of the stairs to listen to the slight smother of laughter from behind the door of the priest’s room. It lay to his right, opposite the chapel, and the lamplight at its bottom and low voices from inside meant the two priests—Sire Benedict and the nuns’ large oaf—were sitting up late, probably over wafers and wine of a better sort than what they gave at the altar. Priests did well for themselves, and house priests better than most, though if he had been reduced to priesthood, his choice would have been to be a nunnery’s priest, with easy living and a plenitude of women to hand.
