Moreover, as has been said, dread sat upon that rooftree like a croaking raven, nor could they escape from the shadow of its wing.  Far away in the East a mighty monarch had turned his thoughts towards this English home and the maid of his royal blood who dwelt there, and who was mingled with his visions of conquest and of the triumph of his faith.  Driven on by no dead oath, by no mere fancy or imperial desire, but by some spiritual hope or need, he had determined to draw her to him, by fair means if he could; if not, by foul.  Already means both foul and fair had failed, for that the attack at Death Creek quay had to do with this matter they could no longer doubt.  It was certain also that others would be tried again and again till his end was won or Rosamund was dead—­for here, if even she would go back upon her word, marriage itself could not shield her.

So the house was sad, and saddest of all seemed the face of the old knight, Sir Andrew, oppressed as he was with sickness, with memories and fears.  Therefore, Wulf could find pleasure even in an errand to Southminster to buy wine, of which, in truth, he would have been glad to drink deeply, if only to drown his thoughts awhile.

So away he rode up Steeple Hill with the Prior, laughing as he used to do before Rosamund led him to gather flowers at St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall.

Asking where the foreign merchant dwelt who had wine to sell, they were directed to an inn near the minster.  Here in a back room they found a short, stout man, wearing a red cloth cap, who was seated on a pillow between two kegs.  In front of him stood a number of folk, gentry and others, who bargained with him for his wine and the silks and embroideries that he had to sell, giving the latter to be handled and samples of the drink to all who asked for them.

“Clean cups,” he said, speaking in bad French, to the drawer who stood beside him.  “Clean cups, for here come a holy man and a gallant knight who wish to taste my liquor.  Nay, fellow, fill them up, for the top of Mount Trooidos in winter is not so cold as this cursed place, to say nothing of its damp, which is that of a dungeon,” and he shivered, drawing his costly shawl closer round him.

“Sir Abbot, which will you taste first—­the red wine or the yellow?  The red is the stronger but the yellow is the more costly and a drink for saints in Paradise and abbots upon earth.  The yellow from Kyrenia?  Well, you are wise.  They say it was my patron St. Helena’s favourite vintage when she visited Cyprus, bringing with her Disma’s cross.”

“Are you a Christian then?” asked the Prior.  “I took you for a Paynim.”

“Were I not a Christian would I visit this foggy land of yours to trade in wine—­a liquor forbidden to the Moslems?” answered the man, drawing aside the folds of his shawl and revealing a silver crucifix upon his broad breast.  “I am a merchant of Famagusta in Cyprus, Georgios by name, and of the Greek Church which you Westerners hold to be heretical.  But what do you think of that wine, holy Abbot?”