He tossed and turned for a while, then noticed Cynric sitting by the hearth, prodding life into the dying embers of the fire. He went to sit next to him, stretching chilled hands towards the feeble glow. They were not alone for long. The gathering gale disturbed Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone, too. They clustered around the blaze, talking in low voices, so as not to disturb Bartholomew, although Michael knew it would take more than wind and a discussion to rouse his friend. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and very little woke him once he was asleep – the notable exception being the Gilbertines’ bells. ‘You really heard nothing of our fracas?’ asked Michael, recalling the racket they had made. ‘You know how loudly they sing here,’ replied Suttone. ‘It is enough to wake the dead, and I heard nothing else at all. The only reason Cynric did was because he was in the kitchen.’ ‘I was one of the warblers,’ said Simon. ‘So I heard nothing but my own sweet music.’ De Wetherset was thoughtful.
